


Something Beautiful, in a Terrible sort of Way

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dimension Travel, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gen, fandom forgive me I'm back on my bullshit, no beta we post like illiterates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: It all happens at a private meal.All signs indicate that one moment Rhaegar had been sitting beside them. Then, the next moment, he was gone. Is gone.There's no sign of the Prince of Dragonstone and Arthur feels his heart drop.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

It happens at a private meal.

The royal family is entertaining Lord Lannister and things have just become incredibly tense, what with the king having rejected the Lannister Lord's offer of his daughter's hand. Not that the little lady knows the response yet; she's away with her twin, undoubtedly exploring the castle. Jaime Lannister has potential, Arthur will admit it. However, he's not worried about that. Not right now.

Instead, he stares at the empty seat, at the seat Rhaegar had been occupying but a breath ago. In some state of shock, Arthur looks to King, looks around the room, looks to Sir Whent. The blank faces, the sudden silence of the room; it all points to one thing. That none of them have seen Rhaegar get up and leave, that Arthur hasn't missed a few moments of time by zoning out.

All signs indicate that one moment Rhaegar had been sitting beside them. Then, the next moment, he was gone. Is gone.

There's no sign of the Prince of Dragonstone and Arthur feels his heart drop.

That's when the chaos starts.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Oh! You're awake!"

Eyes sticky with sleep, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen winces at the harsh strike of light, fingers brushing across the bed's surface as he desperately tried to figure out if he has heard this voice before. Female, light, but not recognisable.

In some state of dazed panic, he pushes up into a sitting position, bedsheets pooling around his waist as he moves. He's in an unfamiliar room; high ceilings, great big windows, several other beds occupied by men and women he's never seen before, people dressed in ways he's never seen them before.

His head feels as if it is going to split in two and he cannot see his sword nor feel the concealed dagger that usually resides within the hidden pocket of his pants. Indeed, these don't even feel like his pants at all. Unconsciousness has left him vulnerable and someone has dared to strip him and dress him in… whatever this outfit is. Admittedly, the fabric is incredibly soft, smooth like silk, yet gentle as cotton. Slowly running his fingers across the hem, Rhaegar turns his eyes upon the source of the voice.

A young woman, perhaps a handful of years his elder, stares back at him with the slightest flush to her cheeks. She's comely in a strange sort of way, with features the likes of which he's never seen before. There are no creases to her eyelids, hair straighter than any he's ever seen before just as her face appears… flatter? Is this it then? Has he been kidnapped by foreigners who have designs on his father's kingdom?

"Welcome back to the land of the living, you're currently within St Mungo's and have been unconscious for sixteen days. Harr- ah, you were brought in when you were found passed out just off someone's property line." The young woman smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she turns her attention to a clipboard. It is in this moment that Rhaegar registers the full extent of her appearance; the clothing that can be nothing other a uniform, the strange stick that is strapped to her forearm, the small not-quite medal pinned to her shirt that boasts a small portrait of her.

Only, Rhaegar realises with some alarm, it is not a portrait at all. For the image is moving, smiling up at him before looking to the left, only to look back and repeat that same smile. Trapped in some strange type of cycle of smile, look left and repeat. Written beside it, in the most uniform example of lettering he has ever seen, is 'Healer Chang'. A title, perhaps even a name. Healer… could be a Maester of sorts?

"I have never heard of a 'St Mungo's', my lady," Rhaegar says, slow and cautious as he digests the rest of her words. He was found on a property line, by somebody else's land? Impossible. The last he can recall, he had been dining with his father and Lord Lannister and, while he has vague memories of wishing to be whisked away from the awkward atmosphere… this hadn't been what he wanted. Alas, this 'Healer Chang' has also given him another clue, this 'Harr-' is clearly the beginning of a name, perhaps of the who found him. A lead to follow… once he can figure out if he is being held prisoner or not.

"Oh! W-well, you're not a muggle, we check for magical potential with every patient. For potion efficiency, you see?" Healer Chang blushes, coyly curling another lock behind her ear. She is pretty in a foreign, strange way. But Rhaegar has had many a pretty woman paraded before him during his tenure as Crown Prince; he shall not allow it to distract him from his hunt for information. He is beaten, however, as Healer Chang flicks a sheet of fine parchment over the board and pulls out a quill.

"If I could confirm your basic details, please?"

 

 

What follows is a set of questions ranging from simple (what is your full name?) to the occult (how long was Cornelius Fudge's term as Minster of Magic?). With each one, the Healer hums, taking quick but short notes on her paper. At one point, she abandons him for but a moment to soothe the occupant of his neighbouring bed and, much to Rhaegar shock, the board and quill remain floating in the air. That in itself is the final nail in the coffin, the confirmation that he is so very far away from home. Magic… magic died out years ago. Yet, the two items that resided in the air shatter those perceptions. Having decided it is within his best interests to remain silent on his… confusion with what appears to be the norm within this place, Rhaegar had nodded stoically as Healer Chang said, in lieu of contacting his relatives (that they do not have on record), she would be willing to contact the person who found him, to see if she wishes to come and speak with him. Before her departure, the woman had offered him a 'newspaper', which Rhaegar had accepted. What had been handed to him however…

Fingers tracing over the uniform words of black ink, the Prince of Dragonstone rapidly devours the text before him, mind whirling.

He has never heard of the land of Eng, or England, as they call it. It is pure luck that one of the… articles, refers to this land by name. There are names within the passages are unfamiliar to Rhaegar yet hold a great deal of weight given the context they are used in. Perhaps the strangest thing to wrap his head around is the idea of an 'elected official' running the country. Unless he has interpreted in the text wrong and 'elected' means something different in this land.

By far the most impressive thing, however, is the existence of magic. No, not the mere existence, but it's role within everyday life here.

He watches with rapt interest as another Healer gives a wave of a stick and proceeds to repair a laceration that would have condemned a man to death in his own land. The sheer potential in healing alone from the miniscule amount he has seen is astounding.

Reclining back into the comforts of his bed (a standard bed within a ward for those injured and unconscious yet more comfortable than any he has sampled expect, perhaps, his own), Rhaegar flicks through the newspaper once more, even though he has already devoured all its contents. There is even a section where readers can write in for help with their love life, he's blankly amused to notice. In Westeros, this would not be possible. However, here…

"Oh, hey. You're awake."

Looking up, Rhaegar's eyes land on the young woman that Healer Chang is leading over. She's the first person he's seen to not be wearing the healer uniform or the patient's clothing. A worn red shirt a size too large covers her frame, the fabric a cotton so finely woven it's difficult to perceive as anything but one large block of colour. He's started to realise her legs are clad individually, not in a skirt but trousers the likes of which he's never seen before. A dark blue, the material appears tougher than aged wool and twice as expensive as silk. A woman, in trousers, unscored by those she passes by; that is certainly a first.

During the interval between Healer Chang's absence and her return, Rhaegar had been taking careful note of the people who share this room with him; the array of hair-styles, the way in which they speak and behave, he'd done his best to absorb it all. Thankfully, he'd had the forethought to not admit himself a prince to the Healer; despite how kind she could be, he has no idea if the ignorance of his own land is reflected in that of the land of Eng. Who is to say they are unaware of Westeros? Who is to say they do not hold any form of grudge against his people? Perhaps, in this land enthralled with magic, the Valyrians of old visited. For all he knows, these people once warred with his ancestors long ago, with records lost in the Doom. It is a lucky thing that Rhaegar is quick of mind; it should make him capable of passing off as one of them, albeit someone who is vastly confused. A blow to the head, he shall claim.

"Now I am, yes," Rhaegar agrees softly, watching the other woman. She's taller than Healer Chang, with hair the same dark shade but the texture wild, all loose waves sheared to just kiss at her collarbones. Unlike Healer Chang, her eyes are bright, vibrant but, from their current distance, he cannot quite tell the colour. Perhaps the most noticeable feature is the fine white scar that resides upon her forehead, made all the more blatant by her tanned skin.

"Mr Targaryen, this is Hariel Potter. She found you unconscious on the board of her property. Harrie, this is Rhaegar Targaryen. We're suspecting blunt force trauma to the head at present, but memory charms haven't been ruled out." While unsure what a 'memory charm' is, Rhaegar can read the underlying implications that such a thing would have been undesirable to experience; Hariel Potter's lips have thinned, paling with the pressure she puts under them.

"I see. Do you have anywhere to stay, Mr Targaryen?"

At that, Rhaegar blinks once, staring up at the two women. What a novel experience, to find himself with no money to his name and not a place to rest his head. No bannermen to rely upon, no one who recognises him as Crown Prince. Stranded in a land that is not his own and not a single familiar face.

"Not that I recall, no. May I enquire as to my options from here?" Rhaegar requests, watching the two women for movement. Despite her title as 'healer', Healer Chang defers to the other woman. A higher social standing? While her clothes indicate quality and the money to afford such a thing, they are clearly not designed to impress. From the grass stains that smear the knees, he would assume they are for nothing more than the everyday wear and tear of life.

"Well, option one is that we hand your case over the Aurors and let them see where they can take it, all the while you're put up in Ministry funded accommodations, most likely the Leaky, as they stumble through an investigation. I won't lie, given how we are still recovering from the war, you won't be a priority. You'd be looking at several months of wait time, most likely." Several months. That is-

His father, mad and descending deeper into the clutches of insanity with every passing day. His suffering mother, no longer with a full-grown son to distract the King. Viserys, now the sole focus of Aerys attentions given Rhaegar's misplacement. It all bleeds behind his eyes.

"The second option, does it offer a quicker solution?" He cannot be indisposed for months of end. He simply cannot. His mother, his brother, the whole kingdom shall suffer for it.

Perhaps his voice holds a ration of his panic is instilled against his consent, for the two women share a look. When Hariel Potter returns her eyes to him, it is with consideration in her gaze, head tilting ever so minutely to a side.

"Option two is we sweep this thing all under the rug, check you out of St Mungo's and I'll put you up for a bit. You can research to your heart's content, I'll call in some favours people owe me, and hopefully you get back quicker. While that might not seem as efficient as handing you over to the government…"

"Our government may be better than it was a year ago but, given how it was ruled by a madman bent on committing genocide, it's not a great improvement," Healer Chang finishes, adjusting her hold on the clipboard in her arms almost nervously. There's a deep sorrow in her eyes as she speaks; this woman has lost someone to the madman, that much is evident. "Harrie is probably your best bet, in truth."

In short, his options are that of a government recovering from war that will put the needs of its own country and people before his desire to return home, and that of the woman that found him.

"If it makes your decision any easier, Harrie is owed favours by most of the government; anything that isn't covered in a favour, she could probably still get anyway." Hariel 'Harrie' Potter frowns but doesn't deny her companions words. From what he has managed to deduce so far, Hariel Potter is clearly well-respected, independent enough to own property despite her youth, and a woman to be respected. Many of the nearby occupants are staring at her; given the scar upon her brow and the ones half-exposed by the sleeves of her shirt, the indication that she fought within this recently finalised war is clear enough. His choices are a war hero, or a recovering government.

It is the thought of his father, a madman at the helm of the kingdoms, the conciliates his decision.

"I think then, I would like to place myself within your capable hands, Lady Potter."

 

 

The process of removing him from the ward's register is simple enough. Healer Chang scribbles down a few notes, draws a thin stick and, with a wave, sends the now folded parchment off out into the corridor. It disappears around the stone wall, its written word carried off in the form of a bird's wings.

Rhaegar watches it go with something like wonder settling in his stomach. Is this how the Valyrian Empire of Esteros had been run? Had magic come as easily, as fluidly to them as the people here seem to bask within its greatness? He's handed a bag far too small for its contents (everything you were found with is contained within this bag; this alone boggles the mind) and then allowed to rise from the bed.

It is at this point that Rhaegar realises even his boots have been stripped from him. His feet are bare, pale skin exposed and uncovered. Yet, as he glances at the floor, he can see why this is of little issue. The surface is smooth, devoid of any potential for injury. No broke stones, no wooden splints broken off from worn arrows or bows, nothing unsavoury he pay yet step in. As his soles meet the strange surface of the floor, he finds it pleasantly warm, the texture neither stone nor wood.

"We'll take the Knight Bus to Grimmauld," Hariel Potter decides, taking the quill from Healer Chang to scribble something down on the document she's signed. Whatever it is, it's evidentially something he has no need to know of, for no explanation is offered.

Instead, Hariel Potter hands the quill back and thrusts one hand into what he assumes is a pocket in her trousers. The material is so tight that he can see the outline of the knuckles she has buried, the slight swell of the one ring she wears evident in the fabric.

"You might want to dig your shoes out of that bag."

Rhaegar digs his shoes out of the bag.

 

 

Walking through the halls of this building, it's obvious this is not his land; the portraits, much like Healer Chang's own, move. Move and speak. They greet Hariel as she strides purposefully down the corridor, all 'Miss Potter', barring one who addresses her as 'the Woman Who Conquered'. While the man within portrait is treated to a stern look, Rhaegar's companion does not refute the name which is... telling. Clearly he has imposed upon someone of note. Once again, he sweeps his eyes over his companion, assessing everything he can. Despite the fact he is missing some key components, it's clear that Hariel Potter is someone who holds a great deal of wealth; her clothes are well-made despite the slight wear to them, her ears housing not just a single stud each, but tree that ascend around the shell of her ear. Each one is a fine ruby, cradled within a golden hold that disappears behind flesh. Well respected with clear connections to the… healers. And that title…

"My Lady, I must confess-"

"Not here," Hariel Potter cuts him off, a novel experience for one such as himself. Barring his father, no other person has ever interrupted Rhaegar when he is speaking. "The portraits don't just talk, they listen too." Ah, of course. That's relatively ominous. Additionally, it also confirms his suspicion that Hariel Potter has a more on an inkling as to his presence here than she informed Healer Chang of.

"May I at least enquire as to our destination?"

Cocking her head over her shoulder, the woman studies him for a moment, eyes appraising. Her strides, quick and purposeful that they have been, slow until they walk side by side. It is unusual to be led around an unfamiliar place like this, especially without all the usual pomp the Lords like to indulge in.

"Grimmauld Place. It's where I live and where you appeared."

"I see… will there not be any repercussions to inviting me into your home?"

The look that Hariel Potter graces him with suggest that she believes Rhaegar is just a little touched in the head. Suspicion and confusion is evident upon her face; it's expressive in a way no one would allow themselves to be in the Red Keep. Expression showcased weakness and weakness put you at a disadvantage. Weakness got you killed. This place… it is unrestrained in regards to that. The very portraits on the wall had shouted and cooed, had cheered and celebrated Lady Potter as she walked past them.

"I don't have any adults overseeing me, if that's what you're worried about anyway," she says, voice teasing and her eyebrows wiggling mockingly. Unaccustomedly, a hot flush graces the back of Rhaegar's neck and his eyes dart away from Lady Potter. No one so unfamiliar had ever been so bold as to tease him in such a manner.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Rhaegar in lieu turns his attentions upon the multitude of people that pass them by. They all wear a variety of robes, each swath of fabric as exotically bright or patterned as the one before it. The hairstyles are much unlike anything he has ever seen before, cuts that are severe of just downright impossible to exist without some form of supernatural aid; one person has shaved the sides of their heads but great big spikes remain down the centre of their skull, like a trail of horns. He doesn't have the slightest glimmer as to how that is possible other than to explain it away with magic.

Additionally, if this society is so steeped in magic that they can waste its powers to style the very hair atop their heads, what else are they capable of? He worries over this for a moment, worries how they would treat him should he confess himself a foreign prince. There is no royalty among these people from what he has been able to gather. The parchment of news (such an incredible idea, it truly is a shame his own people are not yet capable of such a thing) had only spoken of an elected Minister. Do these people have a distaste for royalty? Potentially so. He shan't risk it. Not yet.

"Hey, how old are you anyway?" The casual manner in which Lady Potter speaks is strange, a constant reminder that he is not where he is supposed to be. Where he doesn't belong.

"I am seven and ten, my nameday was three months prior."

"Seven and ten... seventeen? Well, I guess you're an adult by magical standards. We'll just have to be careful who we mention that to if we go muggle at any point." Muggle? Rhaegar bottles up his confusion, committing the strange word to memory in order to research it later. If his circumstances allow for it.

They pass beneath a large archway, words carved into the stones that he cannot comprehend. Suddenly, there is a blast of noise, as if stepping across the threshold has transported him further than merely moving from inside to out.

Before him is a street like none he has ever seen before. The building stretch tall, taller than trees, taller than the keeps and towers. One of the buildings he swears could be as tall as The Wall itself. Uniform windows decorate the fronts, merchandise the likes of which he has never seen displayed within them. Shops, Rhaegar thinks in stupefied wonder. He is looking at what passes as shops within this place. Soon enough, his attention is draw elsewhere. He wishes to have several thousand eyes as, for the first time in his life, he is unsure of where to begin. Metal contraptions pulled by neither horse nor man rumble down the road with a mighty roar at terrifying speeds. A strange, immobile kind of bird traverses the sky high above him, leaving a cloud-like wisp in its wake. Slender, sole trunks of iron rise from the ground, each with a single branch cut short hanging over what Rhaegar believes to be a road, cradling a glass cage of some kind that looks down upon the earth. People are bustling about, dressed even stranger than those within the confines of the building he has just left.

"Whoa there!" Hariel Potter's hand is suddenly upon his arm, the other cradling his wrist. Oh, it seems he has lifted his arm before him, as if to ward off sudden onslaught of influx of input from the world. "Take a breath, just breathe. I get that some of it's a lot to take in, but you're fine, alright? It's a damn good thing I put some notice-me-nots up," the latter is whispered, passing beneath her breath as if an afterthought. The physical touch, though not something he is used to, grounds Rhaegar, roots him to the spot and allows him to just… exist.

This is not his land. It is not his kingdom. He has heard tales of Essos. This is not Essos. It cannot be part of the Known World. It is just too- too- advanced. It's advanced, far beyond what his people would be capable of. He cannot even being to name the majority of the things around him and Rhaegar is far from unlearned.

"It is- w-where am I?" He is being terribly rude. He has not addressed Lady Potter by a title, has not addressed her by name at all. Perhaps, Rhaegar considers, this is an extreme case of shock. He has been taken aback before, but never to the point where he is unable to hide it. Never to the point where he is almost catatonic from it.

"London, this is London. It's the capital city of England and a primary hot-spot for Wizarding kind."

"Wizarding?" Rhaegar croaks, watching Hariel Potter's face crumple slightly. The hand around his wrist releases its grip, retreating to the woman's wild hair. Her pale fingers run through it, peeling the strands back form her face. A light dusting of sweat brackets her hairline, brought about by the sun residing above their heads or the stress of the situation, Rhaegar cannot even begin to deduce.

"Look, let's get to Grimmauld, then you can ask away to your heart's content without a breakdown in the middle of the street." Yes, yes that makes sense. It's a wonder people haven't already began to glance their way, curious as to what is going on. Not one person appears to be of the common-folk, all far too free and at ease with their movements. There is not the traditional wariness to their features, the slight hunch to their back. What is this place?

He tenses as Lady Potter reaches into her pocket; he need not worry, for it is a polished stick the emerges within her grasp. The almighty bang, as if thunder has struck, startles Rhaegar. His head reaches for a sword that is not present, even as he moves to put Hariel Potter behind him. Then, it registers what, in fact, caused the noise.

"Don't worry too much, it scared the life out of me the first time too." One of the many metal contraptions stands before him, tall as the average keep's walls. A royal purple in shade, it houses a multitude of windows, more glass than people within. A woman stands at the threshold, a flap hat of kind planted upon her head and another metal construct hanging from her neck by a thick strap of leather.

"Oh! Harrie Potter! It's an honour!" She bows, clumsily and with an eagerness Rhaegar has never seen upon any face that has bowed to another. Beside him, Lady Potter (is Harrie perhaps how she is known to the world? A shortening of her true name to make for ease of speech?) smiles in return; hers is a brittle thing, however.

"Hello. Can I get a ride for two to Grimmauld Place, please?"

"O' course you can! Free of charge. Can't possibly ask you to pay the fare after everything you've done. Ernie'll agree, right, Ernie?" The woman twists around to look upon a man perched high atop a chair. With his wild white hair, leathery wrinkles and the strange, moon-like glass worn before each eye, this 'Ernie' could be likened more to an owl than a human. He's short and at an age one would be considered 'outstandingly lucky' to reach in Westeros. He says nothing, instead gesturing for Lady Potter and Rhaegar to board this… method of transportation. That must be what this is; a fare implies passageway must be bought and all the other things alike this he has seen passing by have had a person residing within their cavity. Admittedly, they had not been as tall as the one that stands before him, but perhaps the height is a sign of wealth. For all that those on board do not appear to be… refined.

"See, Ernie agrees. Hop on board! Would you like a hot-chocolate?"

"No thank you. A paper bag might be a good idea," Hariel Potter replies, gesturing to Rhaegar as she continues, "for my friend here."

"Right, can do, can do. Take a seat and we'll be off in a jiffy! Grimmauld will be our third stop." The woman, who has still yet to introduce herself, bounces up the steps, a strange, bubbling energy to her as she moves. Hariel Potter climbs up first, one hand grasping at a railing that is far too polished to have ever been considered for the job in Rhaegar's home. Flattened, the metal would make a fine mirror for a minor noble. Still, he runs his hand along the unusually smooth surface, climbing up after his guide.

Hariel Potter has already seated herself on a plush bench, one of the many that are placed within the cavity of this contraption. What was it that she had called it- ah, a 'Knight Bus'. Tentatively seating himself, Rhaegar glances up when he hears a multitude of charms and he finds his eyes widening in surprise. A chandelier, elegant and clear, resides above their heads, the thin sheets of glass clinking against one another with leftover momentum.

"You may want to hang on to your armrest and, if you're going to be sick, be sick into the bag." Lady Potter presents him with the aforementioned bag which appears to be made of a parchment so thin it goes by a different name. Rhaegar accepts it tentatively, voicing a quiet thank you as he mulls over the first piece of advice. From the corner of his eye, he notices two young women (more girls really, each perhaps ten and two) clinging to the sides of their seats and chatting animatedly. Every so often, one or the other will twist to stare at him. He catches the eyes of the next one and she squeaks, much like a mouse, spinning back around in an instant. The tips of her ears are red, Rhaegar notes with a slight curl of amusement.

Then, then the outside world begins moving and he suddenly understands exactly why he has been told to hold on. It is not a moment later that the paper bag is in use.

 

 

The 'Knight Bus' grinds to a halt for the third time and not a moment too soon, for it feels as if there is nothing left in Rhaegar's stomach for him to regurgitate. His limbs shake with the effort though, astonishingly, there is no foul odour wafting up from the contents that now reside within the 'paper bag'. Hariel Potter had not said a word the first time he had been sick, though by the third, one of her small hands had begun rubbing gentle circles into his back, face awash with sympathy. Yet, even the exhibit of his weak stomach has not stopped the two girls across the way from continuing to overtly stare at him. He hopes they believe they are being covert with their observations.

"Come on, Rhaegar. We're here."

He doesn't jolt at the casual use of his name if only because any unexpected movement threatens to send his stomach rolling. It is with caution that he rises, the 'paper bag' still clutched within one hand. He is quite lost on what to do with it; there is no desire within him to keep hold of it, but to leave it upon the 'Knight Bus', no matter how horrendous the experience has been, seems incredibly rude.

"Let me get that for you!" The woman from before chimes, pulling free a polished stick, if not alike Hariel Potter's then similar. She waves it and, just like that, the bag is gone from his hands. Disappeared; as if it had never existed in the first place. He stares at his hand for single moment, then turns his gaze upon the woman.

"My thanks," he states with a dip of his head, trailing off when he realises he has no name with which to address her. She does not hear his unasked question, does not read the cue, and instead bops her head forwards in a mockery of a nod. All the while, she fans her face excessively with one hand and glances towards the two young woman.

"Not a problem in the slightest," she chimes and both girls giggle as some kind of understanding passes beneath them.

"He's only just legal," Lady Potter suddenly snaps, looking utterly unimpressed as she stares down the woman before her sharp eyes turn on the other girls, "and he's too old for you. I do hope Hogwarts isn't slipping enough to not give you any homework over summer."

"N-no Miss Potter!" one stutters out in shock, looking ashamedly away.

Hariel Potter nods, as if this response is acceptable, and then makes for the door. Rhaegar trails after her, quite certain he's missed a step but unsure what exactly it is.

The place the Knight Bus has brought them too is both similar and dissimilar to where they boarded it. The streets are quieter here, only one miniature Knight Bus traversing the road in a fetching shade of crimson. There are lesson people too, the windows of the buildings smaller and less numerous. No wares are displayed behind them; in lieu, Rhaegar can see two children within one window, running about with some form of toy clenched in each hand, playing. Carefree in a way so few in his lands are.

"Come on, the quicker we get inside, the quicker we can get on the same page. Merlin, I wish Hermione was here."

"Of course. After you, Lady Potter." The address seems to startle her; Lady Potter flinches at his words, spinning around to stare in a manner that suggests such a form of address is far from the norm.

"Look, it's just Harrie, okay?" He hasn't the slightest idea what this 'okay' means but, at a guess, he assumes it is some kind of affirmative. So Rhaegar nods his head and follows after her. 'Just Harrie' leads him to one of the many doors into the vast building. Upon closer inspection however, Rhaegar notices that each door to the building boasts a number, this one being '12'. So, a multitude of housing from one building? It certainly would solve the housing problem in Flea Bottom but it seems like a terrible fire-hazard. If one house goes up in flames, they all will. No, of course, he's forgetting the fact the people here wield magic as if it were both a sword and quill, the answer to all of their problems. How else does that explain his current surroundings?

Using the same polished stick that had hailed the Knight Bus, Hariel Potter taps at the door itself, ignoring the ornamental silver knocker that presents itself as a twisting serpent. Silently, the entryway is revealed and it is at this point that his companion turns back to look at him.

"Whatever you do, don't make a noise until we're in the kitchen." An odd request, especially given the fact she had implied no 'adults' would be checking on her, but Rhaegar concedes to it regardless.

 

 

The innards of the building are far different from the outside. Unlike the darkened bricks that make up its exterior, the walls within are painted a light lilac, a thin strip of wood separating the bottom of the wall from lightly panelled wooden flooring. The only dark spot are the rich purple curtains on one side of the wall. They cannot possibly be hiding a window as, given their placement, it would only look into the residency next door. Hariel Potter is a ghost in all but body as she passes by this particular bit, taking the utmost care to do so with as little noise as possible. Rhaegar follows by example, heart in his throat as he wonders just what resides behind those curtains if a being of magic is so hesitant to pass by.

Rhaegar makes his way into what must be the kitchen as Hariel closes the door behind him. She slumps against the wood just after.

"Right, sorry about that but we don't want to wake Mrs Black. She'll just screech, probably have a go at you for having creature blood, what with you looking like a veela."

"I am afraid I don't understand what you mean-" Rhaegar scrambles for a form of address that won't offend and his brain offers up the young girl's words from the bus- "Miss Potter."

"Ah. This is really awkward. Wanna take a seat?"

"I'd prefer to know just what is going on," Rhaegar states, stalking down the length of the kitchen and trying not to stare to much at the assortment of, of stuff that is present within it. He recognises so very little that it is actually a relief to spot a pantry, especially one as filled as this appears to be. In the very least he shall not go hungry. If Lady Potter does not force him from her property once he is done. "I have awoken in a land that is near unrecognisable, one that I have no knowledge of existing before, while magic is prevalent here whereas in my lands it is a dead entity. You claim to have been the one to find me but, for all that I can recall, I was at a dinner with other lords before waking in your 'St Mungo's'." Halting, Rhaegar turns to look at the young woman who stands with her arms folded across her chest, no longer slouched against the door but instead leaning upon it.

"I've spent the past month trying to catalogue all the magical artefacts I've inherited," she starts with, pushing off from the door and prowling in his direction. Rhaegar stiffens, acutely aware he has yet to retrieve his sword from the bag (if it is even within there to begin with) while Hariel Potter is armed with that polished stick that seems to allow her to conduct her magic. Yet, she walks past him, approaching the pantry. Retrieving a collection of cured meats, cheese and bread, she places them on the table top in clear invitation, seating herself in the process.

After only a moment of deliberation, Rhaegar seats himself across from the woman.

Hariel Potter slices through the side of her bread with one of the table knives and begins to stock meat and cheese slices upon its surface. "Sixteen days ago, I came across an amulet that, when I touched it, knocked me out. When I woke up, you were there, face down and out cold. Given that I was in the loft and that this place is juiced up on enough wards to strip the skin off of intruders whenever I've got the wards up, which I did by the way, I didn't have a clue what happened. Just took you straight to Mungo's in hopes I hadn't fucked up too badly."

Rhaegar is so far gone with this tale that he does not even flinch at the vulgarity that flies so easily from the Lady's mouth.

"An amulet?"

"I've got it here. Been trying to figure out what it is or even where the hell it's come from, but the best I've got is that it's from before Phineas Black's time." The name means nothing to Rhaegar. The style of the amulet he is handed, however, is a different matter altogether.

"This is a Targaryen sigil," he breathes, turning the golden trinket over in wonder. It's old, older than much of the jewellery in the keep. Older than all of the crowns, that's for sure. If he had to take a guess, he would place it around Aegon the Conqueror's time, if not slightly before. Yet, the cut, the form, it is all far too advanced for his people. Which can only mean Hariel Potter's people had once been in contact with his own. It would certainly explain his presence here. Travel by magic (a method obviously kept secret) would make sense given Rhaegar has never heard of the Land of Eng. A land he currently stands upon.

"Targaryen, like, your last name?"

"My family, yes. It is old, I'd be hesitant to make an accurate guess, but I'd waged it to be around three-hundred years old. The dragon has not yet been depicted as having three-heads…" Rhaegar kills that spoken thought before he can mention Aegon's conquest, tongue stilling.

"Three-hundred years? That's a lot of Blacks to track back through to see where it came from." Whipping another hand through her hair in what is a clear habit, Hariel Potter eyes the amulet again, fingers of her other hand drumming a nonsensical pattern upon the table. Then, she plants the other half of the bread atop her little mountain of bread, cheese and meat before taking a bite. Hesitantly, Rhaegar begins to copy her, loading his own bread up with a small helping of what appears to be ham and a richly coloured cheese.

"Okay. Clearly this is my fault. I'll set you up with a room here and we'll have to do some research to get you back to… wherever it is you come from. How are you with books?"

"Well read; one of my favoured hobbies is reading."

"You're a strange mix of Fleur and Hermione," Hariel mutters, not to him but to herself in some sort of realisation. "You didn't arrive with a wand, so I can get you a replacement for the time being and hopefully we'll have you back home within the week."

Rhaegar matches her strained smile with a small one of his own, even as a heavy weight begins to settle within his chest. It is clear Lady Potter hasn't the slightest idea how he has ended up here and their only clue resides within the amulet that now rests upon the table between the two of them. He eyes it thoughtfully. He has not heard of such an amulet mentioned within his own reading but, given the Targaryen predilection for fire, it would not shock him to hear the text containing a passage upon is now nothing more than ash. Additionally, he also keeps his mouth shut on his ownership of a 'wand'. The implications that a 'wand' is the polished stick he has seen all magic come from so far, and that Hariel Potter is offering to acquire him one… well, even if he does not know how to use it, Rhaegar is far from oblivious. He can watch and he can learn.

"That would be gratefully appreciated, Miss Potter."

"It's just Harrie. You're only a year and a bit younger than me. Miss Potter sounds strange." What an oddly relaxed culture. Though it is discomforting to address a lady of his age by what is clearly a nickname, Rhaegar bows before her wishes.

"I shall endeavour to try, Harrie."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Hariel Potter sets him up in a room on the floor above the kitchen. The only way to reach it is by climbing the stairs that are but a mere three steps from the ominous curtains. It is a room of good quality, with rich dark furnishing that would not be amiss within a Targaryen household. As guest room, it houses no family sigils, no lucid animal representation and no influx of specific colour schemes.  It is the calming environment he needs right now. While hesitant to allow his feet free of his boots, the respect he has towards Hariel Potter’s furniture overrides the scraps of common sense he has clung to since awakening here. 

With his legs folded upon the bed, Rhaegar settles the bag supposedly containing his possession upon his lap, eyeing the opening cautiously. There is no feasible way that a sword could have been placed within the hessian sack. However, his boots were also housed within and Rhaegar would not have predicted them capable of being contained within the bag either. Loosening the drawstrings and dipping his fingers inside, the Prince of Dragonstone stills when his hand finds a familiar hilt. It’s impossible and yet… Slowly, Rhaegar pulls his sword free from the contents of the bag; it is utterly impossible for it to have ever been contained within. Regardless, there it is.

“Magic,” he breathes in wonder, twisting the blade back and forth, watching the light that descends from the ceiling catch on the surface, catching on the slight nick that Arthur had caused in their last spar. It is, without question, his sword. The how… the mechanics behind how the blade had been contained with the bag is a question for another day, an answer that will hopefully present itself prior to his departure. If given the time and opportunity, he may even go in search of it himself. The weight of his weapon had not even been apparent until his fingers closed around its hilt.

Placing the sword by his bedside, Rhaegar begins to slowly strip the bag of its contents; his hidden dagger, the pair of socks he’d been wearing (though it would have been far more helpful to find those about an hour prior), a hair tie and, humorously enough, one of Tywin Lannister’s goblets. He must have been holding it when he was… misplaced. Staring down at the lion crest residing on the goblet’s side, Rhaegar carefully places the cup upon his bedside table, alongside the strange sculpture of metal and material, one that appears almost tree-like in its structure. A closer inspection showcases that there is a glass bauble of sorts within the material, a thin piece of metal within the glass itself. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what it is for, only that it appears delicate. He shan’t touch it until his knowledge has grown on the… intricacies of this land.

Lady Potter (just Harrie, as she requested he address her) had left him within the room, promising to return with some clothing while he… ‘settles in’. He has little idea what that is supposed to mean. He does not wish to ‘settle’. His priority list remains returning to his lands as soon as possible, with a secure second of obtaining as much knowledge as possible from this place in the process.

Smoothing out the material of his socks, Rhaegar allows his brain to whirl with the unthinking movement, folding the fabric back and forth as he considers his current predicament. While he worries about what is happening within the Seven Kingdoms (especially given he has spent sixteen days unconscious here; the thought of that alone is staggering), there is little he can do to affect the events from his current placement. His best bet is to tackle returning home as efficiently as possible. Rhaegar has always prided himself on his mind above all other attributes he possesses; returning home with new knowledge to better the lives of his people is also something he needs to consider.

 

 

 

A knock at the door startles Rhaegar from his thoughts, the sound muffled behind the thick expanse of the wood.

“Rhaegar? There’re some clothes here; we need to make sure you don’t stand out as much. Especially if we’re going to go chase things up with the goblins.” Goblins. It’s a word he is unfamiliar with but is clearly a noun; probably a group of people. Perhaps record-keepers? There must be some form of record on where this particular amulet has come from.

Opening the door, Rhaegar finds Hariel Potter waiting on the other side with a bag unlike any he has seen before. The material is strange, a shiny white that behaves in a similar manner to fabric but shimmers in the light in a way that is not dissimilar to metal.

“My thanks, Miss Potter.”

“Harrie,” she corrects without hesitation, “if you’re quick, then we can get to the goblins before they shut.” The interruption throws him once again and all Rhaegar can do is offer a polite smile, dipping his head in unspoken agreement. He will try.

“As you say, Lady Harrie.” He closes the door, just as her face twists into a kind of crossbreed of humour and startlement. 

The clothing which he has been provided is by far the most comfortable thing he has ever worn, despite being so very… unfamiliar. The trousers are much like Hariel’s own, tighter than the norm and made of a similar material, if darker than what he has seen her sporting. Pockets are carefully placed and done not solely for convenience but style too. They rest against the tops of his thighs and offer no unseemly bulge of fabric where the excess material usually lays, allowing for this tighter fit without issue. He’s not too sure on how they will fare when damp, given how heavy the material is; hopefully he shall not have to find out. The belt is far easier to comprehend, similar to his own but styled as carefully as everything else; efficient and sleek once threaded through the loops of his trousers. It is the top he remains unsure of. The fabric, while exceptionally similar to cotton, stretches. Once he has it covering his torso, Rhaegar finds himself pulling at the material, trying to wrap his mind around the fit of the shirt. It clings tight to his skin in a way no tailor in his own land would ever be able to replicate without compromising the movability of the wearer. This shirt moves and stretches with him; Rhaegar twists back and forth and finds the fabric returns to its original position as the rest of his muscles do. More magic then.

The last item is the only thing familiar; sandals of a sort made from leather. He cannot identify the origins, could not guess what animal it has been pulled from. The soles are new and comfortable against his feet. Toes wiggling to test movability (as he silently acknowledges that, with magic so readily at their fingertips, these people would have no need for armour) Rhaegar looks to his sword. There had not been a single person carrying openly in this place; he slides the blade back into the borrowed bag. His normally concealed dagger follows soon after and then he ties the bag onto one of the fabric loops of the…. ‘jeans’ his host as provided him with. 

 

 

 

Pulling open the door, Rhaegar finds Hariel Potter leaning against the hallway wall, reading through what appears to be a leather-bound book. She soon snaps it shut at the sight of him, placing it upon the shelf to her right.

“You’re not going to make it easy travelling through Diagon like that,” she mutters, continuing before Rhaegar can question her upon the meaning of her words, “but wearing a cloak in the height of summer would be even more attention grabbing. We’ll just have to hope your pretty face intimidates them.” Her lips twitch up in a grin, cheeks pinking as she spins of heel and gestures for him to follow. He does so cautiously, well aware of the purple curtains that Hariel, a being of magic, is wary of.

It is as they exit the building, Hariel turning to close the door behind him, that Rhaegar finally finds his thoughts organised enough to begin his line of questioning.

“You found the amulet among your things?”

“My Godfather’s things that he left to me in his will,” Hariel clarifies, pulling some kind of metal contraption from the bag she has slung over one shoulder. She peels two thin sticks back and then proceeds to perch the contraption across the bridge of her nose, the thin… arms she had spun free curling around the upper shell of her ears. The tinted glass residing over her eyes reflected the brilliant sunshine; it would only take one blow to the face to shatter them and potentially blind her. A quick tap of her wand (if he has deduced the definition of the word correctly, that is), duplicates them. “Put the sunglasses on; they’ll help with the sun and usually, people get the hint you don’t wanna be bothered with them on.” Some kind of accepted social cue from a contraption worn on the face?

Rhaegar places the ‘sunglasses’ on tentatively; they darken the world so his eyes no longer strain against the harsh glare of the sun. How useful.

“The Black family’s had a thousand years (at the very least) to collect a whole lot of stuff, so I’ve spent a good portion of the summer already going through it,” Hariel shares, setting off down the street. Rhaegar tries hard to not stare at every curio that captures his attention as they pass by, but it is proving difficult.  

“This is the first thing that’s summoned a person though. Hopefully the last too. Anyway, the goblins keep a record of all the content that goes in the vault and comes out of it. If you’re right about the time-period the amulet came from, then Gringotts will have records and we can find out which Black it was that put it in there.” Vaults… some kind of bank then, with these ‘goblins’ running it. Perfect. While he may not be overly fond of bankers, Rhaegar can at least acknowledge they are methodical creatures that keep a careful track of all the comings and goings they handle. At least, that is what the Iron Bank is like. He cannot see any reason why this ‘Gringotts’ will be different. All he has to do is present a believable façade, act as if he belongs upon these streets and that nothing in particular is a shock to the system. As long as he draws no attention to them, then this will be quick and painless. Speaking of painless…

“Will we be taking the Knight Bus again?”

“No; the entrance to Diagon is only a few streets over. There’s no point. Unless you want to, that is?” With her quick smirk that lifts her cheeks, it’s clear that Hariel Potter is teasing him.

“I much prefer walking.”

“I bet you do,” Hariel laughs as she speaks, shoving one hand, the one with the ring, into her trouser pocket. The other is holding the strap of her bag, slung high on the curve of her shoulder and clearly made to be decorative. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what resides within it; it could be anything from a hairbrush to one of the miniature Knight Buses. Space holds no true form here, not with magic. For all he knows, this walk of a ‘few streets’ may have been a few hundred streets folded into a few.

Regardless of the exact measurement of their travels, it passes in an amiable silence, Hariel leading him along the footpaths that bracket the roads with the ease of familiarity. The people that pass by talk loudly, clearly, their speech peppered with colloquialisms that mean nothing to Rhaegar. They do not bother to hush their conversation as they pass, unbothered by the concept of being overheard. One man speaks to another about his latest conquest, looking unfazed by Hariel’s presence for the conversation. Hariel herself looks undaunted, barely sparing the man a glance as she passes by. Rhaegar feels himself fluster, fingers scrambling to adjust the collar of his shirt. Especially as more than one-person (both female and male) stare after him with lustful eyes. It is as if the inhibitions of these people are so much lower than his own, as if they have no control of themselves. That, or they hold different morals. Perhaps the more likely conclusion; this land is so vastly different to his own, why would the morals and values remain true between them? They wouldn’t. Who knows what is considered just and right here?

“One more street,” Hariel promises, stopping at the edge of the road, a collection of white strips connecting the two side paths. From what he has been able to observe so far, this appears to be an acknowledged crossing of some kind, a sign to cross when a red light shines for the smaller knight buses and gives an alarm-like signal. Magic used to organise roads; it’s spectacular. It’s order he’d never have considered needed but, now that he has seen it in effect, can only dream of witnessing in his homeland.

“Then we shall arrive at this Diagon Alley?” he questions, standing beside Hariel as others line up to wait for the signal to cross. She glances at him, head still facing forwards so that she’s peering around the edge of her ‘sunglasses’.

“Yeah. Brace yourself, it’s a bit more… colourful than the streets here.”

 

 

 

Colourful is far from the word to describe it. Rhaegar, despite how learned he is, doesn’t even have the word to describe it. His vocabulary fails him though it’s no surprise given how his mind is only just managing to keep up with the sheer amount of input. The visuals, the noise, the scents and the feel of tension that dancing across the skin of his forearms; it must be magic. Has to be. Despite being aware of its existence, he has not felt it in such potency as this. It is almost a physical thing, smothering the entire alley in its presence. Hariel walks on as if this is an everyday occurrence and Rhaegar forces his feet to move, to follow her as she walks. He cannot, however, wipe the awe from his face.

“This is Diagon Alley.”

“Yep. Gringotts in the white building in front of us… word of warning, they might not be very friendly. Tensions are still a bit high from the war and the fact it’s me asking won’t help things,” Hariel explains, curling one wild lock of hair behind her ear, exposing the three studs that rise up the edge of the skin there. Then, as if sharing a personal secret for the first time, she whispers, “it’s amazing, isn’t it?” And there’s a heavy sense of belonging, of precious and treasure and sorrow all wrapped up into one sentence. Rhaegar can only nod in agreement, no longer able to believe this is what Valyria was like, once upon a time. It seems too extravagant a step, too large a leap, even for the mythical land of his ancestors.

“You are famous among your people, are you not?” It is not a question that requires an answer; he sees the way others stare as she walks past (particularly when they spot the wisp of a scar atop her brow), he recalls how those upon the Knight Bus treated her.

“Something like that,” Hariel agrees, pushing the sunglasses further up her nose, ensuring they disguise the shape and shade of her eyes from others.

“And you fought in this recent war?”

“I- yeah. I did. How did you know?”

“There are a multitude of scars upon your arm, you are well respected by the people you have come into contact with and they address you with the title ‘Woman who Conquered’.” Which is a title and a half to unwrap. Rhaegar does not have the time, however much he would wish to pluck apart the story of how she has gained such an impressive title.

Hariel Potter is quiet for a moment, weaving expertly through the throngs of people that parade about the alley. It is only by focusing upon her shoulders that he gets through the sensory overload that is Diagon Alley. When she speaks again, she does so quietly, almost passing beneath her breath in nought but a whisper. “I won the war.”

They arrive at the steps before he can recover from that one. 

 

 

 

Goblins, it turns out, are not a collection of people at all. They are a sub-race of humans. That is as close as Rhaegar can get to classifying them. Half-recalled tales of the Children of the Forest float through his mind as he takes in their wrinkled faces, large ears and squinting eyes. Every single one of them watch Hariel like a hawk. Evidentially, they’d been on separate sides in the war. It’s the only explanation as to why they look upon her with such hostility. Not to say they do not grace the rest of their clientele with the very same glances. How they are entrusted with a bank, with the currency of this land… but, what is to say that these beings do not possess magic of their own? Best to tread lightly.

“Gobbleguk.”

“Miss Potter.” The pure loathing in the creature’s voice has Rhaegar stepping closer, shoulders back and head tilting up. Two goblins shift uneasy and he becomes acutely aware that, to draw his sword, would require opening the bag at his hip. That alone would cost him precious seconds. Perhaps he should wear it openly, even if no other does. He does not, after all, have a wand with which to defend himself.

“I need to look at the Black records, particularly any pertaining to amulets that were stored in the vaults.”

“Your… accomplice shall have to wait in the lobby.” Accomplice. That’s a very carefully chosen word. From the clench of her jawline, Hariel recognises whatever subtle jab was being thrown her way. Nonetheless, she dips her head in accordance, turning back to him.

“Rhaegar, pull up a seat in the lobby, please? I won’t be long. I’ll grab some cash too and we’ll get you a replacement wand before we head back.”

“Of course, Lady Hariel.”

“Just Harrie,” she stresses, brows puckering and, were it not for the situation he finds himself in, perhaps Rhaegar may have smiled. Arthur certainly would have.

“Lady Harrie.”

She huffs as she walks away, glancing once over her shoulder with a thin smile to her lips. 

 

 

 

By his reckoning, it takes Hariel a half hour to return with a collection of parchment, obviously for later study. It is from there that the arrive at a ‘wand shop’. The building itself, it is incredible. The young woman manning the counter claims to be a stand in and has already spent half of the time he has been in the shop apologising profoundly that her boss is not in the country at the moment and that things will take longer because she’s an apprentice. She also takes careful care to inform Hariel twice that ‘Mr Ollivander will be sorry to have missed you’. It is as she is saying the same thing for a third time that Hariel politely excuses herself to inspect the wears. Rhaegar would… should pay his companion more attention. Yet… yet, when the first wand had been offered to him, placed within his hand with a carelessness he could never treat another’s possession with… he’d been spellbound. So far, not one wand had been compatible with him according to the young apprentice and yet, yet each one had connected with something inside of him. It may not have been smooth, but the displaced papers, the extinguishing of candles, the avalanche of boxes; that had all been a result of the extraordinary power that has always resided within his chest. He’d just never known of its presence. It is proving exceptionally difficult to keep his face reserved, to not simply bask in the sensation he should have known his whole life. Magic. He is a being of magic and for the first time, he can feel it thundering in his chest, roaring as fire at his core.

“Alrighty, let’s try this one. Ebony, fourteen and a half inches, unicorn hair. Not too flexible, pretty rigid actually…” she stops speak now, rubbing at her chin with one hand, the other holding the wand out in the space between them. Rhaegar accepts it carefully, feeling a jolt surge up his arm at the contact. He’s almost hesitant to give it a wave but when he does… it’s an instant connection, an understanding that none of the other wands had been right for him because it was this one. This is the one he’d been destined for, a wand waiting in this other land with all its mystics and magics, just waiting for him to come and collect it. And collect it he has. The room seems to come alive around him, chimes from none-existent bells echoing through the crowded space.

“A match!” The apprentice claps her hands together, joy evident on her face. The motion summons Hariel Potter like a silent wraith, sunglasses now hanging from the collar of her shirt and a duo of leather contraptions held between her fingers.

“We’ll take the wand and two holsters, please.” Presenting the two ‘holsters’ in question to the apprentice, Hariel flicks a quick glance his way, one eyebrow quirking up as she eyes the wand in his hand. “Unicorn hair… I was kind of expecting dragon heartstring if I’m honest.”

“Wands can be made from parts of a dragon?” Rhaegar questions before he can stop himself, mind already whirling with the implications of it all. In his land, the only residue of dragons is that of their skeletons. Heartstring… well, the dragon would have to be dead to collect a part of the organ, but not dead long enough for it to have begun decomposing…. Do dragons still draw breath here?

“And from phoenixes. Along with a selection of other creatures, but Ollivander only goes for those three. If you’re that interested in it, there’ll probably be a book in the Black family library, they’ve got everything in there. Should be something to help with solving our problem too.”

“Is it a marriage contract?” Rearing back at the eager tone, Rhaegar eyes the apprentice. The way her bright eyes look between the two of them is discomforting. Hariel’s flat expression as she replaces the sunglasses upon the bridge of nose is far from a reassurance.

“There is no marriage contract with my name on it, Rhaegar and I aren’t lovers, nor are we long lost family. I don’t appreciate gossip or gossip being given to the tabloids. Keep the change, we’ve got places to be.” The sudden chill from his companion is startling; the apprentice made a misstep and she knows it given the devastation on her face.

“O-of course, Miss Potter. I- I just, my cousin is a lawyer and if you needed help…” There’s a tense moment where the two women look at one another and how strange it is, to not be the centre of attention, as he has known his whole life. All he is here is a companion of Hariel Potter, a woman of great importance in her own community. He rather imagines his father would not be best pleased to learn he has the same important as a consort.

“Sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”

“It’s no problem, Miss Potter.”

“Yes, it is.”

 

 

 

They return to Grimmauld Place much in the same way they left, the sun coating their backs as the people bustle passed them. With ebony wood pressing reassuringly into the tender skin of his forearm, Rhaegar follows after Hariel Potter, eyes focused upon her thin shoulders. She’s unlike anyone he has ever met, but so is ever other person he has spoken to in this land. Healer Chang, the woman on the bus, the apprentice, even the goblins that he hadn’t actually spoken to. He would never expect to come across another with an attitude such as theirs in Westeros, nor would he have predicted those in Essos to act as such. But this place is separate from his own, the people as different as the moon is to the sun. Some things remain, but others differ. Can what similarities that exist between them be classed as the traits of men then? While all else is learned from the environment of their birth? With his head so deep in his thoughts, Rhaegar pays a little less attention than he should have done while traversing the corridor of Grimmauld Place, tripping over a piece of discarded shoes that had been left in the hallway. Catching himself on the wall, Rhaegar looks up in time to meet Hariel Potter’s wide, horrified eyes. That’s when the curtains blow open.

“Scum! Filth in the House of Black! How dare you trespass on the home of my forebears! Mudbloods, filth, Kreacher, Kreacher!” The screeching is hellish, the source the portrait on the wall. It features an aged woman with yellowing skin, bugging eyes; there’s even spittle pooling in the corners of her lips.

“Merlin damn it,” Hariel curses, no longer silent now that Rhaegar has inadvertently awakened this phantom, “shut up, you old hag!”

“Potter!” The woman hisses before she begins her screaming anew. Rhaegar learns three new curses by the time Hariel has managed to force one curtain side closed, a light-skinned creature much-alike a goblin having appeared to aid her with the other flap of material. It clicks one long, spidery finger and a translucent dome surrounds them, conveniently stopping short of the portrait. Its bloodshot eyes swing around to take Rhaegar in just as the Prince of Dragonstone does so stare at it.

“Mistress Harrie has brought a Targaryen back. A noisy one,” the thing grumbles, pulling at the long form of one leathery ear, matting down the white hair that has made its home within.

“Wait. Kreacher, how did you know Rhaegar’s last name?” Kreacher, if that truly is his name, turns to look upon Hariel with adoration in his eyes. And it is true adoration, the kind that comes not from whispered tales of a person, but of knowing them. Of having spent time exposed to their character and yet, still having found something to worship regardless.

“Kreacher has severed the Black family for hundreds of years, yes he has. He remembers Mistress Saererys. Master Alnair travelled far for many years in his youth. Master Alnair’s magic was strong, yes it was. Mistress Saererys ran away to be with him-”

“Kreacher, did either of them leave any journals behind? Any at all?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The truth of the matter is, Hariel Potter has no idea what to make of her current houseguest. Rhaegar Targaryen is quiet, that much is clear. Quiet and well-bred and well-mannered. The only thing he is slow with are his smiles. Which is making things difficult for her. Because it’s clear he’s playing it safe; in an unknown land without a single person he knows or can find any form of trust in. The clothes he’d arrived in had been stamped with a three-headed dragon sigil, much like Malfoy’d always used to do with the Malfoy crest. She can get that he’s from an old family, had been able to deduce they were of good stock the second Kreacher had indicated a Black had taken one of his family for a wife. But it doesn’t change the fact that Rhaegar’s cautious approach is going to slow whatever progress they make. Things would be much easier if Hermione were here, Harrie decides. She’d know what to do. Harrie… Harrie isn’t book smart. She’s not good at theories or working things out. Harrie is a problem solver only to the extent of trial and error. She’ll run at a problem but if that doesn’t work, she’ll go at it from a different angle. There’s not much thought to her methods and this is a scenario that requires a thinker. Even if it feels like a complete waste of time to be reading a long dead-woman’s journal.

“Why do you want to get back so quick anyway?” Harrie grumbles, flicking to another page. Unless this ‘Westeros’ has made massive leaps in technology, then it’s still stuck in the dark ages according to what she’s reading here.

“My family remains there,” Rhaegar states, his voice soft but with a firmness that implies there’s iron beneath. His eyes, a shocking shade of indigo that should probably only be genetically available in Fleur’s family, gaze up at her from beneath thick lashes. Honestly, he’s too pretty for words and then some. He’s only just turned seventeen, he’s near two years younger than him. There’s six years between Bill and Fleur though, so she’s well within her rights to find him attractive.

“Your family’s important, right? Likely some kind of lord at least.” That’s the general feel she’s got from the journal she’s reading. A family capable of riding dragons like horses… and directing their potent power at their enemies. If someone from the Targaryen line hadn’t tried to conquer something in three-hundred years, then Harrie will eat the Sorting Hat. If she’s learnt anything from her dealings with Voldemort (and to a lesser extent, Dumbledore), it is that power corrupts. From the stiffening of Rhaegar’s shoulder, she’s getting close. “Look, I just want to get you back home so I can banish my guilt and then get back on with my life.” Or, rather, figuring out what she’s going to do with her life. Even now, a year after Voldemort, she’s still not sure what to do. Help when the occasional Death Eater surfaces, sure. Aid Kingsley when he needs a rousing speech, sure. But beyond that? It’d been a fight for survival prior to May last year. Now all she’s got going on is making sure Crookshanks is fed while Hermione’s out of the country with Ron. That and the pretty-boy currently sitting rim-rod straight in her living room. Doesn’t it hurt his spine to sit like that?

“I am a prince in my homeland.” The confession comes with an intent stare, as if daring her to try and ransom him back home. If she knew how to do so… no, not even then. Harrie’s not hurting for money and for all that Ron’d find it rib-crackingly hilarious, she could never think to keep another person away from their family.

“Right. Is it a good life, being a prince?” she asks because what else is she supposed to do? How else is she supposed to carry on this conversation?

“It is a hard one,” Rhaegar states after a moment of uncertainty, looking back to the pages of Alnair’s journal, “but it is a responsibility I shall continue to ensure a strong kingdom.”

“”You sound like a good guy, Rhaegar. I’m sure it’ll be no time at all until we get you home.” If only she could feel as confident in her words as she sounds.

Chewing on her lip, Harrie turns her eyes back to the pages, but the vast majority is just whimsical poetry centred around Alnair. Hopefully Rhaegar’s own reading material will offer them more of an insight to travelling between worlds, as Harrie is beginning to suspect is the magic at work here. If not… well, it’s twelve more days until Hermione’s due back.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

He remains awake far longer than he should, reading through Alnair’s journal. It had been he who had pressed to read the journal of the one not native to his own lands. It means that anything he doesn’t understand; he takes note of upon the parchment beside him. Consequently, he may present these unknowns to Hariel, allowing her to answer any queries on her world and, hopefully, recognise the one that stands out. The one that should link to his world. He has, however, slept fretfully, mind awash with visions and dreams of the realm his father rules. He cannot even begin to guess upon the fallout of his absence, cannot begin to assume what chaos the seven kingdoms are currently in. Oh, the sun will continue to set and rise, but the states of the land it graces its light upon? No, he needs to return as swiftly as possible.

So, while his eyes burn from the absence of sleep and his head pivots unreliably upon his neck the moment he sits up, Rhaegar believes he has solved the puzzle. Though the technical language is far beyond him, terminology that he can only assume is magical, the phrase ‘to traverse between worlds’ is particularly damning.

Peeling back the heavy covers, Rhaegar slides his legs to the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing over the polished floorboards. He has no idea of the time; there is no way to wake himself through the use of a melting candle and nail, for there are no candles at all. Instead, the light comes from what he can no identify as ‘lamps’ which run through magic, as all else in this land appears to do. He wonders if Hariel has awakened yet, wonders if it would be considered rude to break his fast without her present. She is the lady of this house, though it would appear only she resides here. She and this ‘Kreacher’.

The other being had not remained after presenting them with the journals of Saererys and Alnair Black, disappearing to whence it came. How it had even known to appear at that point in time though… The portrait had been calling for it, under the expectation that ’Kreacher’ would answer her call. While Rhaegar is not utterly certain on the sanity of the portrait that resides behind those curtains… this is a world of magic.

“Kreacher?”

“Mistress’ guest calls, oh yes he does.”

Having flinched back at the thunderous crack that announced the being’s arrival, Rhaegar takes a moment to observe Hariel’s servant, trying to take everything in.

“Would it be considered rude to break my fast without the lady of the… house present?” He stumbles slightly over just what to call the dwelling he currently resides in; it is far finer than any castle or keep he has ever stayed in, but it is also far from the structures he is used to. House seems to be the most appropriate word and, given how the servant does not huff or scowl in response, he has perhaps picked the correct term of address.

“Mistress allows her guest to eat whenever they wish it. However, Mistress Harrie is already dining, yes.”

“I see. Thank you for your aid, Kreacher.”

The thing grins, all sharp, brittle teeth before it disappears from sight. Unsure if the servant has actually left or simply removed itself from his sights, Rhaegar stands, making his way to the wardrobe. Within, it houses a selection of clothing, some similar to the garments he had witnessed in Diagon Alley, others leaning more towards the attire he had spotted during their walk from Grimmauld Place to Gringotts. Tentatively, he selects a pair of trousers similar to what Hariel had chosen for him yesterday, opting for a pale blue tee-shirt that boasts a silver arrow upon the front (not stitched on, but a part of the fabric, though how that is Rhaegar cannot even begin to guess). Above the design resides the words ‘Appleby Arrows – Quidditch team’. He has no understand on the first three words, but the concept of teams is known to him. It is tentatively that Rhaegar decides to wear the shirt; Hariel has been good to him so far, he doubts she would allow him to dress like a fool in her presence.

Entering the washroom that adjoins his bedroom, Rhaegar makes for the sink. The claw-footed tub he understands; the tall stall is a different matter. There is piping of some sorts that sprouts from the wall, perhaps to imitate a waterfall. He cannot say for certain. He is, however, unsure of how to turn it on and he shan’t experiment. Not yet, when he is unsure of his standing.

 

 

Once he has washed and dressed, Rhaegar strides into the kitchen with Alnair Black’s journal tucked under one arm, the parchment containing his notes held alongside it.

Sitting up to the large table within her kitchen, Hariel Potter lifts her gaze to regard him with tired eyes. Glass, residing within a whip-thin frame of gold, rests upon her face in two pieces, similar to the sunglasses they sported yesterday. The front half of her hair is peeled back from her face, captured in a tie atop her skull, exposing the simple silver studs that have replaced the rubies within her ears. Unlike he, she looks well-rested, awake though reluctant to be in such a state. She is also unquestionably in her sleeping attire still, only a thick robe of soft fur hanging open to expose ‘pyjamas’ similar to what she had gifted him.

“Good morning, Rhaegar,” she murmurs, disrupting the glass that sits before one eye with the edge of her hand, knuckles digging into the soft corners of her eyes as she paws the sleep free. In his homeland, it would be unthinkable to meet royalty dressed as one would be for bed. However, he is swiftly accepting the fact that this is not his home. These are not his traditions, nor should he expect to see the morals and values he grew alongside. This is a different land with different circumstances. As such, Rhaegar takes a seat at the table, managing not to startle when a plate and empty cup appears before him.

“Good morning, Lady Harrie.”

The ‘Lady Harrie’ outright snorts at his term of address, one hand supporting her head as the adjoined elbow rests upon the wooden table-top. The collar of her shirt is ajar, exposing one collarbone but covering the other; there is a spot by her hairline, just off the left cheekbone. It’s all jarringly relaxed and only succeeds in discomforting him.

“Kreacher? Will you get a full breakfast for Rhaegar, please?” Hariel addresses the open air before she turns her attention back to him, the sunlight glinting off the two plates of glass that bracket her nose. “If there’s something on it you don’t like, leave it be. We can change what you get in the morning to whatever you like.”

As if on cue, the plate before him fills with food, some he recognises, some he doesn’t. He’s relatively certain the pink meat comes from a pig, the sausages are recognisable enough, but the black circle is a mystery to him. It is with a great hesitancy that he begins to eat, savouring the flavour of the meats and leaving the mystery black circle after one tentative bite. He notices that it is absent from Hariel’s plate; perhaps an acquired taste then? Certainly, he is in hurry to do so.

He sets the mystery circle aside, approaching the pink pig’s meat instead. It’s sliced neatly with little fat to bracket its edges and cooked well. This ‘Kreacher’, if it is indeed the cook, is a skilled one.

“So, I found nothing in Saererys’ journal, other than a great deal of poetry written about her husband-” By the twist of Hariel’s features, Rhaegar will assume the contents are the kind of private prose that should only have been read by the subject. “-though she does hint towards Alnair using magic to travel between her land and his.”

“I have come to similar conclusions,” he professes, reaching for the journal and parchment he set upon the table top mere moments ago. He offers it to Hariel and, as she takes it, he catches a glimpse of the wand holster hidden by the long sleeve of her pyjamas. Is that what the people of this land do, come down to their halls to break their fasts armed? Carry this instrument with which to conduct their magic always, slotted neatly up their sleeve? He assumes there is a quick way to draw it; what use would it be, hidden beneath a sleeve that they have to shimmy aside to reach their weapon?

The long, low whistle Hariel passes between her lips snaps him from his thoughts. When he tilts his head in an unspoken question, the woman just smiles, turning her attention back to his notes. “You’re handwriting is pretty,” she mutters, in lieu of an explanation, strange glass circles shielding her eyes with their reflective surface. “And you’re also completely right. This looks a lot like Ancient Runes- ah, the stuff we use for rituals,” she hastily tacks on, placing the parchment and book back upon the table top. From there, she taps thrice at the edge of her plate and it disappears. He assumes the servant Kreacher is behind it but cannot say for certain. Hariel is magic, this land is magic. Who is to say the plate does not simply appear for the duration of a meal and then disappear into whatever abyss it came from once its task is complete?

“Are there books upon these ‘Ancient Runes’? I assume so, given their use in rituals, but you speak as if you are unfamiliar with them.”

“Yeah, I didn’t study Ancient Runes and with Hermione out of the country… our best bet is probably gonna be Luna. I’ll send a Patronus and ask if she’s free… I’ll go get dressed. The library’s down the hall, if you want to do some research while you wait.” With a plan in place, his host finds it prudent to get up and vacate the room, leaving Rhaegar with a half-finished meal. He looks down at the meats, vegetables and… the mystery circle, weighing up his options. On one hand, he has less than he usually would. However, he has also been offered access to the library. A library that he assumes will house books on magic. Perhaps, if he is lucky, even how to perform it with the wand he has acquired. Food shall hopefully remain in his future, but he does not know when he will get such a golden opportunity to raid the literature of this land. Rhaegar taps upon the plate’s brim, just as Hariel had done moments ago. It vanishes in much the same manner as the one before it and Rhaegar rises to his feet. In Westeros, it would take at least an hour for a woman to dress. However, this is a land of magic, a land where intricate dresses are not the fashion, nor are the complex braids favoured. It is with haste and silent feet that he makes his way down the hallway, mindful of the thick curtains.

 

 

A short passage of time later, Rhaegar Targaryen finds himself sitting within the comforts of one of the large leather chairs, his wand drawn while a quill and piece of parchment lay upon the desk before him. ‘ _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ ’ remains open in his lap, turned still to the first page. It had seemed the simplest book with which to begin, what is one being the first numerical value in counting. However, Rhaegar is beginning to wonder if perhaps this land runs on different means. What is to say one represents what he knows of one? What is to say one does not represent the hardest level of difficulty, as if it is the top tier? He cannot say for sure but, in the written word, the spell seems simple enough. No, he must be misunderstanding some word, must be taking some out of context. This ‘wand-lighting charm’ cannot be the most complicated spell for the people of this land to master; they have managed to capture the very same magic in the metal mockery of trees, after all. He had seen it the night prior while looking out his window, inspecting the look of this land in the absence of the sun. The stars are exceptionally dim here.

Adjusting his grip upon the thin column of ebony, Rhaegar completes the circle with a whispered “Lumos.”  He almost drops the wand in shock when the tip glows ever so slightly. With wide eyes, he draws the stick up to his face, inspecting the tip of the carved, polished wood. Sure enough, a faint light still resides there, a miniature star at daybreak, barely a scrap of a thing but it is present. This is it, the proof that Rhaegar Targaryen has magic, can perform it. This is the first swing of the sword, the first stroke of a pen. His belief has wavered these past few years yet, perhaps, he might just be the Prince that was Promised after all. That which threatens his land will surely not be able to stand up to the might of magic, should he prove capable of mastering it as his Valyrian ancestors once did. He very deliberately pushes aside the connection between magic and dragons. One thing at a time. It is not as if his family has access to any dragon eggs as it is; the fires of Summerhall, the grim tragedy of his birthplace, had ensured that.

“I take it our magic is different to yours?”

Startling, Rhaegar watching the weak starlight blink out on the wand-tip. He turns his gaze to Hariel as she leans against the door, one hand jammed into the pocket of her trousers. If they could even be called trousers. There is an awful lot of leg exposed, everything from the knee down and a fair portion of the thigh too. Her feet are clad in leather, though the sole is lifted at the back. They look strange, forcing Hariel to stand as she would upon her tiptoes, heels resting on the… thick wedge of the shoe. Her shirt is once again of high quality, a pattern of golden dots bearing wings painted onto the material. It hangs open at the front, buttons undone, exposing a black top beneath that stops just as her ribs do. Despite the overshirt being tucked into the waistband of her… short breeches, there is still a slip of stomach laid bare at the front.

“Excuse me, Lady Hariel?”

“Harrie,” she corrects with a mutter, scraping a hand through the hair she wears loose. The thin plates of glass in their wire frames are gone now. Perhaps an addition that does not match the impression this outfit is intended to give? “You were practicing, right? Don’t worry too much, Lumos is always small on your first try.”

“As a prince, I never much had the opportunity to study the magical arts,” Rhaegar shares and it is not a lie that leaves his lips, instead a selectively crafted truth. He could have studied magic, could have made the opportunity for himself if he had insisted. But it had seemed unnecessary to study a discipline with no practical application. Only, that is not the case now, is it? What does weigh heavy upon his mind is Hariel’s words. The Lumos being small upon the first try. But this is not his first try, is it? It is, in fact, his ninth. How is he to ever be able to learning enough magic to progress his homeland if he… if he struggles to perform it? Never before has he faced such a challenge in learning something, never before has he not been… naturally gifted in a new art. In the harp, in singing, in swordplay and in jousting, he has always succeeded with a natural grace, with inborn talent. Perhaps even if potential is not unlimited, as his father had so often proclaimed. But magic? Magic… magic, it turns out, does not come with ease to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Well, we can get you some books to take home, if you want... I had to practice in secret sometimes too.” The last few words are shared in a low whisper of a voice, a soft utterance than Hariel Potter immediately attempts to bury beneath another statement. “Luna said she’s free, so we’ll head over to the Rookery now. We’ll apparate; it’ll be quicker and there’ll be no fussing with the Knight Bus.”

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with this ‘apparition’, Lady Harrie.”

“Just Harrie. It’s another way to travel. You turn on your heels and picture where you want to go and then, well, you get there? I don’t really know how all the magic works. But you need a license from the Ministry to do it legally. Just to make sure you don’t leave any bodyparts behind.”

“Excuse me?!” Rhaegar asks, alarmed by the very thought. Leaving bodyparts behind? The concept of the Knight Bus is suddenly a lot more appealing now.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been doing this for two years now.”

 

 

Before he can protest, Hariel has managed to shuffle them both out of the door. From there, all he can recall is a hand resting upon his arm and then the most awful squeezing sensation. He had believed the Knight Bus to be an awful form of transportation, but what he has just suffered… well, he shan’t complain about the horseless carriage again. Fingers curling into the grass that resides belong his knees, Rhaegar squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep his brain from spinning any further. Does he truly wish to bring magic back to his land if this is the common sensation? Then again, it seems that only magical transportation has brought about these awful reactions, so perhaps he just won’t share that particular knowledge with his people.

“Chin up, Rhaegar. You get used to it. Eventually.” It is with a great effort that he lifts his head, squinting up at the standing form of Hariel Potter. Truly, he must make a pitiful sight indeed, for her smile softens and she squats down beside him. “Seriously, it does get better. I had the same reactions with magical travel when I first used it. Hermione said something about your own magic learning to counteract the upset, but I’m not too sue about the specifics. I’m not book smart like her.” Here, she shrugs, offering a bashful smile that puckers the corner of her eyes, pulling at the thin scar upon her forehead.

When her hand (scarred and callous) is presented to him, Rhaegar accepts the unspoken aid. He finds his feet soon enough and takes the opportunity to glance around their location. They must be outside of the city now, for great fields of wildflowers stretch out in all directions, the picturesque landscape broken only by the rising rock formation before them. It is only after looking closer than Rhaegar realises it is not a rock formation at all, but instead a home for there are several windows dotted upon its surface. There must be some form of magic holding the building steady; it looks as if one strong gale would destabilize the whole construct.

“Welcome to the Rook, home to the Lovegoods. Specifically, Luna Lovegood. She studied Ancient Ruins when we were in school and I know she’s been practicing rituals, if only to locate… things.” With her lips pulling into a taunt line, Hariel starts forwards, gesturing vaguely in what Rhaegar assumes to mean ‘follow me’. As they progress towards the building, a stone pathway bleeds free of the flora, winding through the flower fields and stopping only once it reaches the steep steps of the black home. It resembles a failed turret, large in girth and with fewer window then he’d have expected at first glance. A multitude of wooden boxes resides beneath each one, plants spilling over the edges. Hariel doesn’t even get the chance to knock upon the door before the threshold is pulled open.

Standing in the doorway, a small slip of a girl stares back with protuberant, silvery eyes. Her eyebrows are faint, unhelpful in providing anything but a look of dazed surprise.

“Harrie. And you brought a dragon with you!” She claps her hands after that whimsical address, utterly ignorant to the startled look Rhaegar shoots her way. What dealing has this woman had with his family, to identify him so easily as a dragon? “He’s come with a lot of Wrackspurts, Harrie.”

“Hello Luna, it’s good to see you. This is Rhaegar Targaryen, by the way. Now, how have you been?” Unfazed by Luna Lovegood’s perturbing behaviour, Harrie climbs the seven steep steps to greet the other woman with open arms and a warm smile. Standing side by side, it is clear that Luna Lovegood is indeed smaller than average, though the strange footwear Hariel sports does not aid in this.

“I think I am recovering from the torture. I can almost make it through the night now without having a nightmare.” Awkward tension fills the air as Harrie steps back from her friend’s arms, a look of guilt and worry crossing her features. Rhaegar remains at the bottom of the steps, his gaze sweeping over the young woman who speaks so brazenly of torture. A casualty of the war then, and not simply as an uninvolved civilian. Uninvolved civilians do not get tortured. This Luna is clearly a close friend of Hariel and Hariel won the war. Perhaps a prisoner of war stands before him now and, while she may look healthy, there is clearly a lot that magic can hide.

“That’s good to hear, Luna,” Hariel says softly, a sad smile upon her face as she turns back to Rhaegar. It is a clear invitation for him to join them at the top of the stairs and he does so with only the slightest bit of hesitation. Luna Lovegood watches him approach; with her dirty-blonde hair and silvery eyes, she appears a poor man’s Valyrian. Perhaps one of Saererys’ children married into this family and the bloodline has diluted down to the woman that stands before him.

“Yes, I’m quite happy with it too. Come on, Daddy won’t be home for another three hours. We can talk in my room.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Luna’s room hasn’t changed all that much from when Harrie last set foot inside it. The portraits are still there, occupying the ceiling space in all their painted glory, ‘friend’ encircling them again and again and again. Perhaps she has forgotten how overwhelming some part of the magical world can be, Harrie thinks as she watches Rhaegar take everything in. His eyes trace every wall, the entire ceiling, his face softening as he registers it is no golden chain framing the faces but a single word, repeated unendingly. He mouths it and Harrie is struck, once again, by just how shockingly beautiful her company is. She’s not really surprised that he’s a prince; he’s got that princely image to him, after all. The noble jaw, heavy eyebrows, the white-gold of his hair. The only thing that doesn’t match up is the… sadness that swims in his eyes. She hasn’t seen it leave. Sure, he might express confusion, surprise, gratitude. But it’s always with that lingering sorrow beneath. Yet, she is not Ron. She doesn’t blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, doesn’t point out the obvious because, socially, that’s unacceptable.

“You’re very sad.” Luna’s social cues, however, need work.

Rhaegar blinks once, the motion slow on his pretty face. He’s braided a section of his hair back once again; she gets the feeling it’s ‘in fashion’ where he comes from. It’s unusually, but it’s not like it doesn’t look good on him. Everything so far has looked good on him. Even the melancholy.

“Don’t worry. It won’t last forever. Harrie makes her friends happy.”

“Thanks, Luna.” It’s a startling amount of trust and something Harrie needs to hear right now. Especially during a period in her life where she’s so… uncertain. Ungrounded. Unsure of her worth to the world. Now that the war is over, now that Voldemort is gone (truly gone)… she’s still grappling for purpose. Thankfully, Rhaegar has presented her with a task she can focus on. “We’ve brought Alnair Black’s diary; do you think you can look it over, please?”

“Of course, Harrie. I’ll miss helping on your adventures.”

Before Harrie can follow up on that little bombshell, Rhaegar has already extracted the journal from the little bag he seems to have permanently attached to his jeans, offering it up to Luna without a mote of hesitation. Her friends takes the book like the precious piece of history it is, flicking through the pages as Rhaegar helpfully informs her to look on page seventy-two. Harrie… Harrie wants to know what Luna means by her last comment. Helping on her adventures? Is Luna planning a little getaway as well? She’s finished with Hogwarts now, having completed her final year and her NEWTs, unlike Harrie herself. The world is at her fingertips and, if she knows the Ravenclaw half as well as she thinks she does, Harrie would bet the Potter vault her friend is going on a Wrackspurts hunting expedition. But just because Luna is going away for a bit, doesn’t mean that she can’t get involved in whatever high jinks Harrie gets up to in the future, does it?

Unless… unless she’s planning to settle down with Neville in the next few months?

Suddenly, the great big gaping hole of emptiness opens up in her chest once again. Ron and Hermione are together and Harrie’s happy for them, she really is. But seeing them together every day, it just reminds her of the empty space to her right. One that Cedric had come close to filling before. Before Voldemort had ripped that possibility away, as he did everything else. Parents, boyfriend, godfather. He’s gone now, but that doesn’t mean Harrie isn’t still feeling the after effects. She can’t afford to get closer to anyone, not when there are still some loyal Death Eaters out there, yet to be brought to justice.

“This is a really good ritual, Alnair Black was very clever.” Luna hums to herself, rocking back on her heels as she continues to peruse the journal. She’s piled her hair up into a bun that rest on the top of her skull, held in place by the wand stuffed through the centre. Harrie can all but hear Moody howling in his grave.

“Can you recreate the ritual to take me home?” Rhaegar asks, his iron tone somehow incredibly soft as he speaks. Merlin, the loo he’s giving Luna is breath-taking, head tilted down slightly with the dark indigo of his eyes peering up from beneath his lashes. Even Luna, lovely, oblivious Luna, stares for a moment, her lips parted ever so slightly. Then, she turns to Harrie, smiling all the while.

“The ritual needs a half moon to work and the next one is on the Fourth of August. I can perform the ritual, if you can get all things we’ll need, Harrie,” Luna murmurs in her usual dreamy tone, blinking those wide eyes of hers as she smiles.

“Yeah, we can do that. Thank you so much, Luna. See, Rhaegar? We can have you home in eleven days. Plenty of time to get supplies together for your trip.” Harrie cocks a smile at the prince she’s accidentally kidnapped, having said those words as if she knows exactly what this ‘trip’ will entail. It’d probably be best to set him up with some kind of protective amulet to begin with; he had, after all, spent a fair amount of time unconscious after arriving here.

“I can make you a list, Harrie. Can you get me everything for the end of the month?”

“Yeah, you can pick it up when we go out for dinner.”

“Yes! For your birthday party!” Luna claps her hands before her twice in delight, looking between the two of them as if to check this is okay. Harrie… Harrie’s smile strains. She’s not had a birthday party… ever. Even last year, when she hadn’t been under the Dursleys’ roof, when she’d been a free woman with no Voldemort haunting her every waking moment… the weight of the war had been too heavy on her mind. And, in all honesty, it still is. She’s not sure she could stomach a party. But Luna looks excited. All of her friends are moving on and maybe it’s time she tries to do so too.

“A birthday party? Forgive me, the phrase is not one I am familiar with.”  

“It means Harrie is turning year older. She’ll be nineteen on the thirty-first.”

“Nineteen… nine and ten. Your name-day then,” Rhaegar concludes, looking between the two of them with those dark eyes under heavy brows.

“Yeah, my name-day,” Harrie murmurs around the fuzz in her mouth, swallowing around a dry tongue. “Thank you, Luna, I’ll start looking for the things you need right away, write me a list, please?”

 

 

 

There’s not much more talk exchanged between the two of them after that. Harrie leaves with Rhaegar, apperating again. This time, the ‘dragon’, as Luna had called him, manages to catch himself before dropping to his knees, and they are both quick to scurry back into Grimmauld. Harrie leaves her guest in the library, where she found him this morning. It seems only natural. When she had caught him earlier, his posture had indicated he was well used to leaning over a book to study it; he gives off that same air as Hermione. So she leaves the bookworm to the Black library with only a short warning about not touching the bookshelves behind the curtains (she still has no idea why they’re behind the curtain, only that Sirius had insisted so not touch them because the repercussions would be unpleasant, if not life-threatening) in order to begin working on Luna’s list. She’s managed to find six of the nine items within her home, including the necklace that had started all of this, by tea-time. It is with two boxes of take-out in hand that Hariel makes for the library.

Upon reaching the door, however, she still, not yet crossing into the room. There’s music coming from the room, hesitant notes rising through the air. The melody is a simple one, performed very slowly, but there’s… something about it.

Juggling the take-out boxes in her arms, Harrie gives a quick wave of her wand, silencing her footsteps before she begins to walk into the room, heading towards the source of the sound.

Under the south-facing window that has been charmed to show Stonehenge outside of its glass panes, Rhaegar Targaryen sits before the grand piano that, for as long as Harrie can remember, has been covered by a sheet. His long fingers are kissing at the keys, each movement slow and unfamiliar, yet the tune that is being carried in the air is anything other than inexperienced.

“You play the piano?”

Rhaegar jolts in shock, one hand snapping down to his side, undoubtedly for the sword he’d arrived with. Luckily enough, he does not carry it openly and, consequently, doesn’t have the chance to draw it on her. The melody has been cut short, the last note hanging unsatisfied between them.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, I should be paying more mind to my surroundings,” Prince Rhaegar murmurs, slowly rising from the piano bench, fingertips drifting across the ivory keys but refusing to draw one more note from them. “As for the ‘piano’, I’m afraid the instrument is as unfamiliar to me as it is impressive. I do, however, play the harp.”

“The harp?” Harrie repeats, humour spreading across her face as she pulls up a seat, one of the big leather chairs Hermione favours during her days off, I’ll see if I can get one for you. Even if you’re only here for a little while, I’d like to hear you play. If you’d be willing to, that is?”

“Given how generously you have treated me so far, I could not deny you a song.”  

“You could even take the piano back with you, if you want. Expand your horizons and all that,” Harrie murmurs, even as her own mind spins at the thought of ‘expanding horizons’. She has ten full days to entertain in which to entertain her guest while also acquiring everything Luna needs. As things stand, Ginny will have her first professional quidditch match tomorrow. It’d probably be a good place to start on giving her guest a rapid-fire introduction to the British Wizarding World. They could maybe even hit up London for a bite to eat afterwards. And yes, maybe Harrie is using Rhaegar as a bit of an excuse to get out and do things she could have only dreamed of while trapped in the Dursleys house. But he doesn’t have to know that and Harrie can alleviate her guilt over not doing anything productive because she’s entertaining a guest. It’s perfect.

“It is a magnificent instrument,” Rhaegar professes, drawing Harrie’s attention back to the present, “are you sure you would be willing to part with it?”

“Yeah. If I really wanted, I could get a new one. But I’ve never really been interested in learning to play an instrument. Now, get over here. We’ve got eleven, soon to be ten days to give you the full English experience. Starting with a traditional English take-away; fish and chips.”

Yes, they’ll spend the next ten days exploring all that England has to offer and, maybe then, Harrie will find something meaningful to do with the rest of her life.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The next morning, a shirt is laid out upon the dresser within what has become ‘his’ room. Rhaegar considers the fabric, considers the design upon it. The shirt itself is of a similar material to the ones that already reside within his wardrobe, though this is the only one in a fetching dark green. The golden talon design upon the front is surrounded by the words ‘Holyhead Harpies’, yet another phrase that Rhaegar is unfamiliar with. That Hariel’s servant has ensured the garment is within his room, it is clear that it is expected of him to wear it. Perhaps it is a requirement for this ‘quidditch’ that Hariel plans for them to go and witness today, Rhaegar cannot say for sure. He will, however, take with him one of the shirts in his wardrobe, stash it in the bottomless pouch that will forever reside at his hip. Just in case this is some form of joke upon his person. Even if he does not get that impression from Hariel.

Gathering up the shirt and selecting a pair of the coarse pants (jeans, Hariel had called them), Rhaegar makes for the washroom. Today he shall explore that tall cubical, the one that he assumes replicates a waterfall. The piping seems to indicate that is the design purpose and, given that his own people have access to rudimentary piping, it shouldn’t be too hard to recreate if he can puzzle out the basics. With that thought in mind, Rhaegar closes the bathroom door behind him and begins to undress. As with the majority of things he has found within this land, their washroom is far superior to that of his own.

 

 

With the required shirt on and a towel hanging around his shoulders, Rhaegar makes with way down the stairs, doing his upmost best to muffle all sound. The curtains that cover the screaming portrait remain in place as Rhaegar passes by them, boots in hand and sock clad feet gracing the wooden flooring. Ducking into the kitchen, he closes the door quietly behind him before turning his gaze upon Hariel Potter. Unlike the previous day, she is dressed for an outing, wearing a matching shirt to the one that had been laid out for him this morning. She too has teamed it up with a pair of ‘jeans’, though her own are cut short halfway down the thigh. Instead of the cooked meats and accompaniments that they had broken their fast with yesterday, a tray of fruits, some familiar and some foreign, lays upon the table. There are two other bowls, barring the one Hariel is eating from, one containing flakes in a tan colour and the other housing what appears to be some form of thick, white… gloop. There’s really no other word for it.

“Morning, Rhaegar. We’ve got about an hour before the match is due to start. Our seats are prebooked, so there won’t be any jostling in the crowds, but it’d probably still be a good idea to set off in half an hour.” with that said, Hariel spears a slice of white-covered strawberry and takes a bite, gesturing with her free arm for him to pull up a chair. Rhaegar does so, inspecting the array of fruits with curious eyes. There is something that looks remarkably similar to blood oranges, but the yellow cubes are anyone’s guess. The strawberries are familiar, as are the apple slices. He takes a little of everything, helping himself to some of the mystery white gloop but avoiding the tan flakes. He does take a moment to swirl the thick substance about in his bowl, watching it stick to the collection of fruit within.

“It’s yogurt.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were looking confused,” Hariel murmurs, popping one of the yellow chunks into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “The white stuff, it’s yogurt. Made from milk, but I couldn’t tell you how exactly. I’m assuming you’ve not got it wherever you come from?”

“No, we have nothing quite like this,” Rhaegar murmurs, stilling his inspection of the substance to instead begin eating it. It’s strange, remarkably cool and it goes well with the strawberry and orange segment he bites into first. Certainly, it would make a pleasant treat on a summer’s day back home. Mother would enjoy it, Rhaegar realises, silently deciding to acquire the method of its creation the moment he can.

“I’ll see about getting you a recipe book or something to take back,” Hariel murmurs, the same glass plates held by golden wires on her face again. She rubs at her chin, the motion knocking free the few strands of dark hair she’d managed to tuck behind one ear. “In fact, if there’s anything that tickles your fancy, let me know. It’s the least I can do, considering I’m at fault for your holiday here.” With a tired smile, Hariel turns back to her own breakfast, scooping up the last of her food.

“How long will this ‘Quidditch match’ be expected to last?” Will he have time later in the day to raid the library that Hariel’s home boasts? There’d been a vast selection of books when he’d last looked and Rhaegar would bet his inheritance that the vast majority are all about magic. Knowing he can perform the most mystical art has lit a fire within his gut, leaving him a desperate wish to master it. Hariel, after all, uses it for the most mundane things, for household upkeep or for travelling. But war has been mentioned, he sits across from a woman who wears the title ‘Woman-who-Conquered’. That in itself implies magical warfare; it could be the very thing that would save his land from that was threatens it. And something must threaten it; the prophecy has all but implied it so.

“It depends. The longest match ever was three months, but ones like that are rare. Usually, they’re a few hours at most, though the quickest was three and a half seconds. We won’t stick around more than an hour or two though. Unless you want to.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what this Quidditch entails, so perhaps we may take it as the day comes?” Rhaegar offers, even as his mind whirls with the concept of a sport that could last three seconds to three months. Who would have the time to be able to watch a sport for three months straight? The very concept is mind-boggling. This land truly is a strange place, as if constant access to magic has resulted in a thought process of ‘can we do that’ instead of ‘should we do that’.

“Sounds like a plan. Thank you for putting on the shirt; Ginny’ll be pleased with the support.” So, this is perhaps a show of house colours, or team colours. Hariel has said Quidditch is played within teams, but there had been no explanation of a family restriction. Perhaps it is similar to the Kingsguard, people selected for their ability at the task to hand. Then, supporters are a result of connections to the players, perhaps?

“Come on then, we should probably get going.”

 

 

The ‘Quidditch Pitch’ somewhat resembles a jousting tournament. If it were stretched as tall as a keep and had what he can only assume to be goal posts planted at opposing ends, as ridiculously high as everything else. Hariel and he are shown to a set of seats within a segregated little box; the sheer amount of people who greet Hariel with a ‘thank you’ or ‘Merlin bless you’, or even a ‘by Merlin’s beard, it’s Harrie Potter’ is a bit astounding. The woman of the hour looks remarkably uncomfortable throughout it all, stuffing one hand into her short breeches as the other comes up to ruffle her hair nervously. Before they had left Grimmauld Place, Hariel had removed the not-sunglasses and cast some form of magic upon her eyes, wand pointed towards her face so that the lilac energy could take effect. He assumes it is something to aid her sight, perhaps the gold-wire-glass are an enchanted item, but unsuitable for day-to-day living.

“Merlin, I forgot how… nosy people are,” Hariel mutters beneath her breath, offering a bright smile to the latest little child to stumble over and offer up a most heartfelt thank you. Evidentially, Hariel hasn’t just won a war. She’s part of something bigger, that’s for sure.

As they arrive at what Rhaegar can only assume is a viewing box, the red-robed guard at the door grants them passage with a shallow nod of his head. Rhaegar doesn’t miss the soft ‘thank you’ that is directed to his companion.

“Harrie!” The overly loud voice thunders through the viewing box, yet this is the first time that Hariel responds in kind.

“Mrs Weasley!”

“Oh, Harrie. I’ve told you, it’s Molly.” The woman that wraps Hariel up in her arms is shorter than his companion and… pleasantly plump. With wild ginger hair and a warm smile, she’s another example of just how far this culture is from his own.

“Hey there, Harrie.” The man who says this is clearly of a relation to this ‘Mrs Weasley’; the same ginger hair and same warm smile. Upon first glance, Rhaegar assumes him tanned, but a closer inspection proves his face is simply overrun with freckles. His arms are muscular, the kind that comes from more than just swinging a sword around. Based upon the man’s build, Rhaegar would bet blacksmith as the man’s trade however, given the magic that these people wield, there is every chance this man is a Maester equivalent. On one arm, a large, shiny burn resides; why it has not been magically healed, Rhaegar cannot begin to guess.

“Hi Charlie. This is Rhaegar Targaryen, my guest for the next ten days. Rhaegar, this is Molly Weasley and one of her many sons, Charlie.”

Stepping forwards, Rhaegar offers a shallow bow of greeting to these people that Hariel so clearly holds in high esteem, flicking a glance up from beneath his lashes at the duo as he drums up a polite smile.

“A pleasure,” he says, just as his brain makes a leap in logic, “would you perhaps be Ginny’s mother?”

“Oh! Yes! Ginny is my only daughter; this is her first professional match. Though I do wish she’d picked something a little safer to do with her life.” At this, Molly Weasley’s lips twist down in a frown, arms folding across her ample bosom as she seats herself again. Charlie Weasley had taken his seat just after greeting Hariel, leaving only two open. Rhaegar allows Hariel to make her choice first, taking the seat upon the isle as Hariel plants herself besides Molly Weasley.

“Don’t worry too much, Mrs Weasley. Ginny’s a natural at flying and she’s an excellent chaser.” Mrs Weasley hums, though makes no verbal agreement. So, Mrs Weasley does not agree with her daughter’s choices, but has not stopped her from pursuing her ambitions; if he’s reading the conversation correctly.

“Oh, but enough about that. Rhaegar, was it?”

“Yes, Lady Weasley.”

At that, the woman does fluster, cheeks reddening and she fans herself with one hand, shooting a sharp glance towards Hariel. The dark-haired woman just grins, sending back an amused look of her own.

“Don’t even try,” she mutters, waving down one of the attendants and offering them a few silver coins, “he still calls me Lady Potter every so often. He’s just being polite.”

“It is customary where I come from to address a woman as such, Hariel,” Rhaegar murmurs.

“I see. Well, Harrie is treating you right, isn’t she? That girl doesn’t eat enough, make sure you both get enough food. I keep telling her, but she keeps forgetting.” At this, Hariel huffs, proceeding to descend into several (failed) attempts to reassure Molly Weasley that she is, in fact, eating enough and that Rhaegar is not going short in her care. It is a bit startling, to watch the woman he has spent the previous two days with seemingly come to life within new company. It is understandable that she’s a bit… subdued on her lonesome, or with a stranger such as he. She has, in her own words, won a war; who knows what kind of damage to the mind that causes?

Turning his gaze upon the pitch, Rhaegar finds himself frowning when he has to stretch his back and neck to even catch a glimpse of the green. How on earth is he supposed to observe this sport if they are seated so high up? Are these large stands just a show of status, a boast of magical prowess?

“Rhaegar, mate, what’s up?”

At the address, Rhaegar turns his attentions upon Charlie Weasley, taking note of the man’s almost weathered face. Perhaps he spends a great deal of time outdoors?

“Quidditch is non-existent in my own lands, I truly have little idea what I am about to witness.” If anything at all. It would be rude to comment on their problematic seating arrangements, after all.

“Well, you’re in for a treat then. The players’ll be coming out soon enough. Just remember, we’re rooting for dark green, not light green.”

 

 

When the players do come out a mere handful of breaths later, Rhaegar is speechless.

Flying. When Hariel had been explaining the sport, she had never once proclaimed it was played on anything other than the ground. Soaring through the air on highly polished, well-made broomsticks had been the very last thing Rhaegar had been expecting. He’s quite sure his lips are parted in shock, his eyes wide as all of the players, both women and men, fly through the air in a dazzling arrangement of green. Dark green and light green, each as graceful as the other. He barely registers it when Hariel elbows him, professing ‘Ginny’ to be number three in dark green; he’s far too intrigued by the sight before him. A sport played in the air, huge leather balls rocketing about the place and threatening to unseat riders, another ball passed expertly between three of the team, two armed with bats to ward off those threatening leather bludgers. Finally, there is a single player from each side of this conflict on the look out for what has only been described as ‘the golden snitch’.

Rhaegar has little idea what he is supposed to be looking for when these two players suddenly began descending at outrageous speeds towards the ground, but he shoots to his feet like every other person in the box, a startled gasp leaving his lips. It turns out to be a feint, but he’s enthralled all the same.

In the first half hour, several players have to take temporary level of the field, from broken arms to bloodied noses; they are all present and yet, they are all playing again within the next five minutes. And he had been under the impression jousting was violent.

“The snitch is in in the Harpies’ middle goal,” Hariel whispers beside him and Rhaegar looks over in the aforementioned direction, eyes widening when he does indeed spot something glittering in the light. It appears to be a small, golden orb, fluttering in place. As soon as he lays eyes upon it, what must be the golden snitch is zipping away; Rhaegar is hard-pressed to keep up with its movements. It would seem that the seekers of each team have spotted the elusive glitter of gold also, for they dive with the same shocking speed, weaving through a trio of chasers that have to scatter in the face of their downwards charge. One of the sportsmen, yielding a wooden bat, hammers the large leather ball after the duo, though which he is trying to hit, Rhaegar cannot recall. He’s still a bit hazy on the rules. Nonetheless, he’s enjoying himself immensely.

Once again, he finds himself on his feet, neck craning to follow the headlong dive of the two seekers, breath caught somewhere in his throat. They both correct themselves just in time, skimming across the ground with their hands reaching out. The crowd roar as the one in light green hefts their arm high, cheering louder than any crowd ever has for a joust. Rhaegar… were he a little less himself, then perhaps he would be upon his feet and cheering with them. A part of him longs for Arthur, for Jon, both of whom he knows would have enjoyed this showing immensely.

Unbidden, his eyes flicker to Hariel, who’s still on her feet but no longer hollering at the seekers. Her eyes are still alight with joy, cheeks flushed as she too turns to look at him.

“Well, it’s a shame the Harpies didn’t win on Ginny’s debut, but it was a damn good showing. What’d you think?”

“Yes, it was very impressive indeed,” Rhaegar agrees, tucking one strand of hair behind his ear. He probably should have braided it back before coming out into public, as he would have done in his own homeland. However, he has not yet seen a male wearing braids in Hariel’s country and, as such, he has chosen to forgo his usual style in favour of blending in that little bit more. Now that he has a set date for his return to Westeros, there is no desperate drive to cling to his own ways. For the next few days, with the assurance that he will be upon his own soil soon enough, he can embrace the ways of this land. He can learn, can experience, can just… exist. It shall be a very pleasant change indeed.

“Come on. I’d have liked to congratulate Ginny, but if I go over there the reporters’ll want me, not her. I won’t steal the limelight on her big day.”

 

 

Hariel leaves him to the library for the majority of the day, though she does ask that he dress nicely to go out for dinner. He’s not quite sure what that implies; are they visiting the house of another for their evening meal? Surely, she does not mean to dine upon the road while travelling. Firstly, the woman can transport them seemingly anywhere across her country, given her magical abilities. Secondly, eating in the open air where there are all manner of insects around (not to mention the horse-less carriages and their strange smell) hardly seems like an activity to which he would have to dress nice. Regardless, Rhaegar is not about to insult the woman whose goodwill he relies upon.

As such, he dresses in a pair of black trousers made of fine cotton and a button up shirt that he guesses is silk. With its dark crimson shades, Rhaegar is once again in his house colours and feels all the better for it, even if it is clothes styled native to this land.

Upon descending the stairs (and mind spinning with the vast array of information he has managed to pluck from ‘Wizarding History: A Short Summary’), Rhaegar finds Hariel at the bottom, sporting a Tyrell-green dress. The style is far simpler than anything that would be in Westeros, lacking in any kind of embroidery as it is, but the cut of the fabric is superior. He’s never seen anything like it.

 

 

Upon reaching their destination, Rhaegar can now confidently say he has seen a multiple of dresses just like the one Hariel sports. It would seem that female fashion in England is not about the amount of embroidery upon a dress, nor the quality of it. Female clothing within this land seems to focus solely upon the shape and fall of the fabric. Strange, but nothing he cannot accept. Rhaegar does his best not to stare as they pass a woman whose top is almost transparent.

The building within which Hariel has brought him to his furnished with a collection of circular tables, two to four chairs tucked neatly beneath each one. Candleholders of various designs reside within the middle, while a great chandelier, with its glass teardrops and metalwork far more intricate than anything within his homeland, hangs overhead.

“It’s a restaurant, an Italian one,” Hariel explains, holding out a slip of paper to one of the women dressed in a uniform, “Hermione recommended it to me, said she came with her parents for a pre-sixteenth birthday party.”

How frustrating it is, to accept the fact that almost every bit of conversation he shares in this land is one he shall have to spend a fair portion of his time deducing. The word ‘birthday’ is easy enough, the date of a person’s birth. As such, a ‘birthday party’ is obviously a celebration held upon that day, though why it would be held in a place as public as this, as opposed to a family event as it would be in his homeland, then Rhaegar is unsure. Discounting celebrations of a Lord’s birthday, a King’s or even his own; people throw him celebrations in an attempt to win his father’s favour.

“I’ve never had Italian before,” continues Hariel, following after what Rhaegar can only assume is a servant, “but I hear it’s good.”

“Might I enquire just what ‘Italian’ is, Hariel?” Rhaegar speaks in a soft tone, low enough that the servant will not hear his words, only the low muffle of his voice. She’s perhaps ten years older than him and the look she graces him with is plenty familiar, has been since he began that transition from boy to man. He has long since mastered allowing the discomfort to show on his face and instead waits patiently for Hariel to answer.

“Food from a country called Italy; it’s popular stuff.” She turns to the servant at this point, holding up a sheet of shiny parchment. Rhaegar doesn’t catch what she orders for them, the words too foreign. He does hear her decline the option of wine, stating that he’s not yet ‘eighteen’. It doesn’t take a great leap in logic to conclude that this ‘eighteen’ is, in fact, ten and eight. His replacement is to be a ‘coke’, whatever that is.

As the servant leaves their proximity, Rhaegar focuses his gaze on Hariel, drinking in her features once again. Her eyes are vivid, despite the glass and gold that frame them, dark hair brushing up against her shoulders. “You have an age restriction on wine?” he asks, voice low and soft. He does not know how others would take his situation, but the fact that Hariel has kept it relatively quiet, speaking only to her friend Luna, it is probably not something that would be well received.

“For health reasons; I’m not completely sure, but I think too much of it destroys some organ or another, according to research. Obviously, that’s not good for children that’re still growing.” Rhaegar doesn’t bristle at the implication that he is a child, for he is well aware he is not. By the standards of his own land, he is a man grown. What age a man is considered grown in Hariel’s world is of no consequence to him.

“I see. Lady Hariel, did you attend Hogwarts?”

“It’s just Harrie,” Hariel murmurs again, eyes rolling but her expression is almost fond, as if the constant attempts to exert her nickname upon his tongue have become something of a game to her now, one she does not mind partaking in. “But yeah, I went to Hogwarts. You got questions about it?”

 

 

Their meal arrives as he is halfway through extracting information about this school of witchcraft that Hariel attended. Hogwarts, for all that its name is peculiar and outlandish, is the only institute within which students learn magic. In England, that is. According to the books he has sped through in Hariel’s library, there are others, though they implied to be both foreign and inferior. Careful with his words, he has managed to get Hariel to speak of her education and she shares it as if it is not a coveted thing, something she has had to pay for in gold in order to obtain (though, for all he knows, that may very well be the case here in this wondrously advanced land). She speaks of classes in which the proper technique was demonstrated to her, of a qualified instructor who aided a class of students that usually numbered no more than twenty at a time. A greater number of students than what the Maesters of Westeros teach, but magic would be in high demand. Were magic taught within his own lands, then Rhaegar doesn’t doubt the demand would exceed the number of tutors available.

He chews over these ideas as he works the foreign food about in his mouth; pasta, is what Hariel had called it. It’s strange, the texture different than what he is used to. But the flavouring is fantastic. Another recipe book he shall seek to acquire before he departs for his homeland, if only for something new to penetrate the petulant people who surround his family. Distractions are key.

The evening rolls on, a steady stream of conversation as Hariel continues to discuss her schooling, erecting magical shields that prevent their conversation from spilling over into the ears of other patrons. She paints a vivid picture of Hogwarts, the love she holds for the castle where she spent years of her life evident in the tone of her voice, in the deliberate selection of her words. In order to keep the flames of conversation flowing, Rhaegar stokes the kindling with his own tales, explaining his study of the sword, his love of reading prior to that. Hariel had listened as he explained the different manoeuvres he’d come to learn, all warm smiles and free laughs as he narrated Arthur’s infuriating ability to best him whenever Rhaegar believed he had the man squarely beat. He is soft-spoken as he shares parts of his own history, whereas Hariel remains confident in her magic, never once lowering her voice to a whisper.

Desert is presented before them, some kind of frozen cream that’s sweet flavouring brings a cool relief to his tongue, and Hariel is halfway through a tale of her youth. It turns out his companion had played quidditch during her school days, a Seeker. Rhaegar listens, engrossed in how she speaks, of the sensations she weaves. He wonders if his ancestors had felt the same as she did, such freedom in the air upon dragon-back? To have the wind race through their hair, to feel as if they have left half of their innards behind them as they dived back to the earth; to have caught a bug in their eye as Hariel is now describing. Rhaegar cannot help but to hide a laugh, muffle and genuine, in the amused curve of his lips. His companion finishes her anecdote, placing thin sheets of paper upon the table, decorated in different shades with people upon their surface. The numbers printed upon the corners indicate this is some form of currency, though why the people of this land trade in paper, Rhaegar could not begin to guess.

“Come on, it’s late but I’m pretty sure we could go sneak into Hogwarts.”

At that, Rhaegar does startle, glancing up to his companion as she grins. There’s a merry wild look in her eyes, one reminiscent of Oberyn Martell, the playful rascal of Dorne, before his guardians had come to find him that day when they’d first met, near ten years past.

“Sneak in? Is Hogwarts not a castle?” Rhaegar questions, relatively certain the school had been described as such within the books he has read. Castle implies defences and, while he is relatively certain magic could overcome the defences he knows of, there’s every chance this place is guarded with magic. And Hariel Potter, a woman referred to by her people as the ‘Woman-Who-Conquered’ is attempting to entice him into trespassing upon this land?

“Don’t worry about it; Hogwarts recognises former students and their guests. It all goes by intent.”

 

 

This is how Rhaegar finds himself within a tatterdemalion building, one left to wither away under the watchful eye of the elements and creatures of the land. He traces the deep gouges within the walls with wary eyes, following after Hariel’s determined strides. The whole building is not one he would have willingly stepped foot in prior to this, not without reassurances that it shall not crumble upon his head from hardy gust of wind. Rhaegar is, after all, no stranger to ruin. One only needs to account for his visits to Summerhall to know that as truth.

It only proceeds to get shadier as Hariel leads him into a winding tunnel, one hand trailing across the stone walls, the other holding her wand aloft, tip glowing with a soft, warm light. Rhaegar had been quick to follow suit, a soft “Lumos,” whispered beneath his breath. Any excuse to check, to reassure himself that magic not only exists, but that he is capable of it. That, upon his return to Westeros, he shall be returning with something that will allow him to complete his destiny as the Prince that was Promised.  He cannot afford to let the realm down. Though the soft glow at the tip of his wand is not as steady as Hariel’s, it remains there, bright and pure. Magic. Magic he is capable of wielding. For now, that shall have to do.

“Okay, we’re gonna have to move quick if you don’t want the Whomping Willow to knock you out.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Did they need to break into Hogwarts to use the Quidditch grounds? No. Did they need to borrow brooms from the broom cupboard to fly around as the sun was setting? No. Did Harrie regret any of her actions today? No. Well, not right now, anyway. Perhaps she should have paid a little more attention to Madam Hooch when she was teaching them flying but, in Harrie’s defence, that was more than five years ago. With everything that has gone on in her life, well, it’s only natural that she’ll forget the little stuff. Like how to instruct someone on how to start flying. Harrie hadn’t had an issue with it; she’d just got straight on the broom and that’d been it. She’d been born for it, had instinctively know exactly what she needed to do in order to achieve what she wanted. It had been her one selling point back in First Year (discounting the whole ‘Girl-Who-Lived’ thing). She’d been a natural born flier. Oliver Wood had wept upon seeing her fly during that first practice.

So, it is difficult, instructing Rhaegar. Luckily, of all the princes she could have accidentally kidnapped, she managed to hook a smart one. Probably Hermione-level intelligence (there’s one more person that Harrie knows who was very, very smart but she determinedly stays away from that thought. It doesn’t help that, in his youth, he was as pretty as Rhaegar is). He picks it up quickly and, soon enough, they’re making a tentative lap of the Quidditch Pitch.

The only person who should be in the castle will be McGonagall; while she’ll undoubtedly give Harrie the disappointed frown for sneaking onto the grounds, she had extended Harrie an open invitation to visit. Only, she’d probably meant at a reasonable hour. And she’d have liked Harrie to announce herself as well, she guesses. Oh well, they’re here now and they’ll either get caught or they won’t. Today has been a relatively long day and, if she’s being completely honest, Harrie’s jealous. Jealous of Ginny and her ability to play professional quidditch. It’s something Harrie would have done (it was her dream job before she decided on Auror, but then the war happened and becoming an Auror hadn’t been so appealing anymore). But… but having the Girl-Who-Lived, the Woman-Who-Conquered on one team, it’d be unfair. No one has said it to her face, but Harrie knows, can see it in the lines of their eyes and hear it in the hesitation of their words.

So no, she won’t beg, won’t plead to join up on something she once adored. She’ll settle for the Weasley family games, fro watching Ginny and flying alone. For teaching a foreign prince how to soar through the air like a falcon.

Rhaegar’s… not unsteady on a broom, but it’s clear his confidence in the thin stick of wood is not where it should be, despite the sure set of his shoulders. He’s good at putting on a determined face, that much is clear.

Twisting her own broom around, Harrie settles for going backwards nice and slow in front of the silver-haired prince, meeting his eyes when he glances up. The dark indigo is black as the setting sun continues to descend, casting a shallow glow of orange across his silvery blond hair.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” Harrie teases, leaning forwards to rest one elbow on her broom, feeling her bones come alive with the challenge of navigating while facing the wrong way, while travelling backwards. Her inner thighs burn at the hold she forces them to keep on the broom; how many weeks has it been since she flew for something other than sheer speed? “Let loose and trust your magic to keep you safe.” That’d been Neville’s problem. Harrie would love to say she’d figured it out, but that was a Hermione conclusion, through and through.

Waiting no longer for Rhaegar Targaryen to find his Gryffindor courage, Harrie flips her own broom, twisting so that she’s facing forwards again before she rises, aiming for the darkening sky. The wind whistles through her hair, cuts at her cheeks as her speed increases. For a moment, the empty stands overlap with ones filled in abundance, an array of colours, reds and blues and yellows and greens. The cheers of her classmates, Oliver’s roar for her to keep focused on the snitch, Lee Jordan’s oh so terribly biased commentary. It’s all there and then gone in an instant, just like what little childhood she’d had.

Harrie glances down in time to see Rhaegar dive, his grip white knuckled but the set of his shoulders strong. He gets nowhere close to her usual Wronski Feint, but it’s not bad for a first-time flier. She hates to admit it, but he’s not like Hermione at all. He’s just as smart, that’s evident from how he speaks, how he articulates his thoughts. How he’d spoken about learning the sword, how he’d taken the piano so easily… how pretty he is. He’s like Tom Riddle; naturally good at everything and anything he puts his mind to. She can only hope they’re as different in personality as they are in colouring.

Shaking the thoughts free (he’ll be back in his own land soon enough and she can get on with finding out what she wants to do with her life after that’s sorted), Harrie dives.

The least she can do is show her visitor how it’s done.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore. I've just never read one where Rhaegar ends up in HP Post War (or he ends up there at all). So, here we go.


End file.
